


Relieve My Thirst

by Suvroc (cuteandillusion)



Series: Harrowing of Hell [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A demon with waaaay too much imagination, A lot of discussion about hurt/pain - physical and mental - positive and negative reaction to, Alcohol, Angel and Demon True Forms (Good Omens), Anxiety Attacks, Aziraphale Has No Genitalia (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has PTSD (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Bathtub Sex, Blood, Body Worship, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Comforting Crowley (Good Omens), Coming Untouched, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley's Fall (Good Omens), Double Entendres up the Wazoo, Emotional Baggage, Everything Symbolizes Everything Else, Explicit Consent, Fear, Happily-Ever-Aftercare, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Intrusive Thoughts - Distracting Thoughts, Living Together, M/M, Multi, Orgasm Delay, Other, Pain, Past Violence, Porn with Feelings, Rope Bondage, Safewords, Sex Toys, Sex as Therapy, Shibari, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Switch Aziraphale (Good Omens), Switch Crowley (Good Omens), They Really Love Each Other a Whole Lot, Wings, Worry, also they switch corporations while having sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:14:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25244476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuteandillusion/pseuds/Suvroc
Summary: "You’re alright," Aziraphale murmured, kneeling in the darkened cottage next to the exhausted demon. Crowley rocked his face back and forth a few times against his lapels and mumbled something muffled into the angel’s chest."What was that?""Say 'we'. 'We’re alright.'"Using the safety they now have, Crowley and Aziraphale process past traumas and future fears, eventually through a bondage scenario in the cottage’s ineffably large bathtub.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Harrowing of Hell [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586740
Comments: 95
Kudos: 147
Collections: Good Omens Mini Bang





	1. Milk and Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The South Downs cottage is a safe place (due to Aziraphale and Crowley signing a lease with the Guardian of Limbo to insure neither Heaven nor Hell can visit). But what happens _after_ "happily ever after"? 
> 
> This is part of the Do it with style! GO Mini Bang. A million kudos (and cookies) to [Tarek_giverofcookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies) for beta'ing and coming up with the question "what if they switched by accident?" 
> 
> Click to the end to see **True Form art** that will knock your socks off by my partner in the 'bang, the utterly amazing Katartstrophe.
> 
> \---
> 
> This fic is ~~nearly~~ finished and will post weekly on Mondays. It is my “retiring(?) to the South Downs” story, and part three of my post-canon Harrowing of Hell series ([Draw Me O’er Your Burning Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22044358/chapters/52611388) = my “bus stop” fic, [Harrowing of Hell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23147488/chapters/55397680) = my “Crowley is dragged back to hell” fic). You don't need to read the first two to understand this one, but hell, why not? The first two had no sexual content but this one has…. **A lot**. Mind the tags as always.

* * *

_"...what is he, man or mouse? Is he interested in nothing more than tea and the wider issues of life? Has he no spirit? Has he no passion? Does he not, to put it in a nutshell, fuck?''_

\- _Douglas Adams, So Long and Thanks for all the Fish_

\---

The angel and the demon he recently rescued from hell gazed up at a darkened English cottage. The angel stood stalwart, letting the harried and worn form of the demon lean against him.

They stepped forward into the cottage, the space they had so recently acquired that promised to shield them from the surveil of heaven and hell, and Aziraphale latched the door shut. With a quiet invocation, he raised the lights. It was just he’d remembered it from, oh ages ago. He glanced around briefly, taking in the emptiness, breathing in the dusty scent of an unlived space.

“I’m afraid it’s rather sparse at the moment,” he said, indicating the lack of any furniture.

Much to his alarm, Crowley sunk to his knees. Aziraphale let out a noise of dismay and followed the demon’s collapse to kneel next to him. He couldn’t blame him, of course. Crowley had been held captive in the depths of hell and subjected to unspeakable horrors therein. Aziraphale had finally found it in himself to mount a rescue expedition, quite literally, as it turned out, as he accessed the flaming sword which he knew lay dormant inside his very being. They had only just returned to Earth, and Aziraphale was sure Crowley was exhausted.

Crowley turned his face into Aziraphale's shoulder, shielding his view of the room. Not knowing how else to react, Aziraphale let him. He could feel Crowley tremble against him, and his alarm worried itself into concern as his brain raced to catalogue what he could possibly do. He brought his arms up and set his hands on the demon’s shoulders. After a time, Crowley mumbled something.

“What was that?”

Crowley rocked his face back and forth a few times, then looked up at him, eyes shining in the dim light. “It feels... safe.”

“It it, oh it is,” Aziraphale said as Crowley curled back into him, hiding his tears. His fingers wrapped around Aziraphale’s lapels and drew him even closer. “You’re alright,” Aziraphale murmured, and silently wished a pile of fluffy pillows and soft bedding into reality around them. Crowley said something muffled into the angel’s chest again, but this time he was able to make it out. 

“Say _‘we’_. We’re alright.”

Aziraphale’s heart caught in his throat. The emotion that he’d held inside, buried deep within for so many years, cried to come out, to be acknowledged. It felt more dangerous than heaven or hell ever did.

What if he said something wrong? What if this didn’t work? What if physically they were never meant to be together? How would they know? They’d already struggled to switch bodies and avoid blowing up; they’d barely begun to hold hands and only just admitted their feelings to each other in the vacuum of space. How would they find out? The Lord didn’t hand out pamphlets on How to Date your Immortal Enemy.

Date?

“Aziraphale?”

He hadn’t realized that, lost in thought, he’d let his hands fall away, his fingers curling into fists, burying into the feather duvet he’d conjured moments before. The muscles in his neck tightened, and his movements were a bit too fast. He looked down at Crowley who stared right back with a look of focused, wet angst, his eyelashes sticking together, cheeks red in the low light. It was a look that begged to ask: _“are we?”_

“I…I,” Aziraphale stammered. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to know the future. The final facts of the matter. He wanted to comfort this beautiful creature trembling next to him.

But he didn’t want to lie. Not anymore.

“I… I don’t know.” His eyes flashed as he looked back and forth between the slitted pupils filled with hope and with fear. He’d seen that look before, at the airbase, right before he’d threatened a future where they’d never be together. “Yet,” he amended. “I… I need you to help me.”

“Anything.” Cool fingers found his fists where he’d hidden them in the soft folds of the bedding and slowly unfolded them. Crowley pulled them to his lips, kissing each knuckle. “You came for me. Saved me.”

Aziraphale took a breath. “I did.”

“You came to me. That first night. Before we knew what would happen, yes?”

“I did.”

“And you kissed me when it was all over. When you were struggling to find what was real.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard.

Very deliberately Crowley ran his fingers over Aziraphale’s, pulling them to his face. “You held me then. Do you remember? On that old couch in your bookshop.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale could barely speak it.

“You got us this beautiful place. Yeah? You. You.” He could feel something beneath his fingertips, with a sense beyond Earthly reality. It made his hand hum with a sense of calm. It was so pleasant he wanted to moan.

“Yesssss,” came Crowey’s wounded voice in the dark. “Do. Touch me.”

Aziraphale let the side of his thumb stroke the snake sigil. Crowley’s eyes rolled back and closed, and his breath left him, hot and quiet. Aziraphale held him there, gazing at him for a moment, then stroked again. A ripple over Crowley’s skin gleamed iridescent in the low light. “Like this?”

“Like that,” he said, his lips barely moving. He entangled his fingers over Aziraphale’s hand. “Touch me. Yes. Oh, yes!”

He stroked Crowley’s cheek, letting blunt nails draw light lines over his skin, ending at the temple. Crowley made a gasping noise and looked as if he were going to fall apart into a thousand pieces. He opened his wide glistening eyes and locked them to Aziraphale’s.

“I want to Touch you, too. Can I? Is that ok? Do you want me to?”

He knew what Crowley meant, and a part of him was burning to feel it. “I… do you really want to know?” he asked, rubbing his thumb over the snake. Crowley’s face had darkened to a scale-like gleam.

“I do. I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

Aziraphale gulped. Leaving one hand on Crowley’s tattoo, he turned his other hand to slide into Crowley’s grasp. His golden winged ring weighed upon him, and he felt as if there were nothing else in the world but the places they came together.

Crowley’s thin fingers drew across his palm, riding the edge of his hand to his pinky finger. He let his fingertips rest against the ring, and Aziraphale felt a pulse and a tremor as he did so. 

“Here? Yes, good. Yes?” asked Crowley, as Aziraphale’s own eyes fell shut at the infinite connection he felt there.

“Oh yes,” was all he could manage as Crowley’s fingers paid a penance against the ring. All five digits touching him, making connection there upon the symbol on his hand. He spun the ring, hopscotching his fingers to walk around it, and Aziraphale did moan. It was more than he had ever asked for. More than he could feel. Crowley slid the ring infinitesimally downwards, and the feeling was rapturous. “Remove it,” he said in a rush. Crowley paused.

He whispered, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” But he continued to work the ring round and round.

Unable to help himself, Aziraphale felt himself begin to dissipate. Even at the height of his journey through hell, he had, for the most part, held his form. He had one goal. He was not there as part of an army of angels, wrecking vengeance and leading the charge to defeat the enemy. He was there on a rescue mission, and all but until the moment he found Crowley, he’d stayed true to his human body (although he had freed his wings).

Even in his flight through space, when it probably would have been better and less strenuous to have reverted to true form, he had kept his body, held together by sheer thought. (Mainly because his true form wouldn’t have pockets.)

But now, alone, with Crowley, in this cottage, he felt the need to let it all spill out. The glistening, gossamer golden love flowed around him. Tears from a million eyes. It dripped like honey from the rafters, pooled around their downy nest. It shone from within a beauty that was all but blinding. And still, his burning heart pulsed stronger as he held the demon, who shook in his arms.

“Whoa,” Crowley breathed, “hold it together, mate.”

Aziraphale wanted to become the universe. Wanted to feel the edges of himself disappear. Wanted to let his heart explode in a rain of glitter. He wanted.

He wanted.

Crowley’s fingers held his hand. They wound into and around him, sharp nails, long and dark, gripping like talons, frightening. He felt cool scales against angelflesh, the soft give of matter, the smooth run of a snake’s belly, curling with the catch of a breath. If he were to fall backwards against him, he’d feel the grating rough danger of spines and razorblades, unable to remove himself like extracting himself from a fingertrap. “No. Never.” Crowley’s voice did not come from his lips, for he had none.

“Oh please,” Aziraphale felt them then, he, pouring with gold, and Crowley, beginning to mix within the black slithering dark of the cottage. Around him, the demon wound like a ribbon of space, pricked with silver. He felt the tickle of a tongue touch the side of his face.

“What can I give you, angel?” the voice hissed at him, and how he wanted to embrace it, to breath it in, to live within it. He was no poet, but he wanted to recite every word that had ever been recited, he wanted to lay every tragedy, every comedy, every romance out to be consumed, to be absorbed.

“You mustn’t,” Aziraphale’s voice rang like an echo. His full being released for the first time since he’d been given his assignment on the wall of Eden, curled and flowed like liquid smoke, danced with the diamond-sharp starlight, electric and bright. Crowley traced a pattern around him, flowing over him like water through a millrun.

“I musssst,” Crowley intoned, a blink of shadow appearing as his thin sharp narrow wings shot forth. “Everything. I must give you everything.”

Now Aziraphale trembled. They were treading territory he had never even dreamed of. Never even rationalized. He wanted to touch. He wanted to be. He wanted. He wanted. And he could have. Oh, he could.

He swallowed, and realized he had a throat again. He blinked, and all but two eyes winked out of existence. He took a breath, and the light began to fade. He held up his hands and could see Crowley’s human face, bare and wanting, framed between them.

He kissed him.

“Everything,” Crowley whispered into his mouth, soft lips against his. The outline of Aziraphale’s human fingertips traced a pattern against his cheek. “I will give you the space between the stars. I will show you colors that should not exist. A blaze of light so bright you can’t look at it. I will give you it all.”

“I know you will.”

He drew his arms up around the demon again, with forthrightness and determination.

“Yes,” he whispered, “we’re alright.”

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are not enough words to describe the feeling I had seeing your process and the final visual art produced, Kat. I am still vibrating from it. So instead, please accept my heartfelt "WAHOO!" (Please go [follow them on Tumblr](https://katartstrophe.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/katartstrophe)!)


	2. Whiskey and Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley slept for a week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We come back down to Earth for a bit. There is a new normal to be experienced, and not everyone is in the best of places, mentally speaking, to face this.

Crowley slept for a week.

Aziraphale lay with him, tucked into the thick, plush pile of blankets and pillows on the floor, unobtrusively but doggedly monitoring the mundane healing of his body. Eventually satisfied with the progress, he felt the need to rise and move about the cottage, which he did, treading lightly. He started planning out where to put bookshelves and his tea things and other such comforts he was used to. He started slowly, nervously feeling out the possibilities of working more and greater miracles. A bit of cleaning. A few books. A rug. Nothing seemed amiss. As he began to stretch his ideas a bit, creating shelves and bringing in his collection of knickknacks, the place really did start to fill in nicely.

On the seventh day he rested, and Crowley awoke.

“Good evening, dear,” Aziraphale said from where he sat at a small table near a window as the pile of limbs began to stir. One shutter was open, and a fresh breeze danced in from the countryside. The table itself was covered with a linen cloth and set with a teapot, saucer, and, as was every other surface currently visible within the cottage, stacks of books. A grumble came from the pile, and a hand rose to run through the shock of bed- tousled red hair. After a time, he continued. “I was hopeful you wouldn’t be out for a century. How are you feeling?”

“Brlehh,” Crowley said plainly. “Dunno.”

“Please, don’t go too fast,” Aziraphale said, then bit his tongue. To cover, he took a calming sip of tea. “Don’t get up too fast. Take your time.” Crowley hissed as he unfolded. His jacket was a right mess, and his hair was, to be honest, a fright. He glanced around. Next to the pillow, where Aziraphale had set the delivery once it had arrived, was the wine crate, and atop it, a soft tartan glasses case. Aziraphale saw his bleary gaze land on the item. “They’re yours. You had a pair at the bookshop and, as you can see,” he gestured with fingers wrapped around his mug, “I’ve brought a few things over already.”

Crowley picked up the case and slid a pair of sunglasses out. He put them on. Instantly, his demeanor changed. He rose and as he did so, each bone in his body found its place once again. He took a breath and raised an eyebrow.

“This the wine from France?”

“Yes, I had it brought here.”

“Here?” He glanced around. “Oh. Er. Right. Mm. Been busy. Your choice of interior décor looks frighteningly familiar.”

Ignoring the comment, Aziraphale said, “help yourself to tea. Or would you like a brief tour?”

Crowley looked down at his hands, flexing them, as if counting each digit. Aziraphale tried not to watch. In all honesty, he had been ready to wait even longer for him to fully heal after the ordeal, but one never knew. Maybe the sort of torture he’d witnessed happened all the time. Maybe Crowley was used to it. He looked back down at his book, the words blurring as he feigned interest in them. There had been so many years upon years where they hadn’t talked. Hadn’t interacted at all. As much as they had been through, and as much as they had admitted thus far, there was so much he still didn’t know.

“Alright,” Crowley said after a time. Azirapahle drew back out of his book. The demon had shoved his hands into his pockets and inclined his head in a sort of ‘lead on’ motion.

“Ah. Yes well,” he began, setting the book aside and tugging the bottom of his waistcoat. “The entrance is just there. This first room is a bit of an open floor plan, so I brought some shelves to divvy things up.”

He stood and walked through the space which was already overflowing with bookshop- and bookshop- inspired memorabilia. Crowley let one hand run along the back of the old sofa which had been relocated and given a prominent position in the room. As they walked into the kitchen he grunted at the appliances and shook his head.

“Those are right out.”

“Do you think so? I mean, I don’t suppose we would have much need to use them, all things considered.”

“Mine are good. Perfect. Have a wine chiller. Have a range-top that doesn’t look like a throwback from the 1950s.”

“Do you even cook?” Aziraphale asked with actual interest.

“I do… stuff. Sometimes.” Diverting his attention, he asked, “what’s up these stairs?”

“Just the bedroom,” Aziraphale started to say, then quickly tacked on an ‘s’, “Rooms. And the bath.” He paused, wondering if he should elaborate. The bath was, well, it was something.

“Do you even take baths?” Crowley asked, mocking the phrase. Aziraphale didn’t like it.

“Only in vats of holy water.”

Crowley froze. 

Aziraphale held his hands clasped before him and smiled tightly. “Hm. There’s a powder room on this floor.” He attempted to continue the tour, stretching his hand out to indicate the next room. “As you can see, this is sort of a....”

“Is this going to work?” Crowley interrupted, spitting the words out as if he didn’t want them in his mouth. 

“What do you mean?”

Crowley made a weird circular motion with the hand not in his pocket. “This. All this. This talking about stoves and bathtubs and you and me and … cohabitation. Domesticity.” The exaggerated sibilant sounds of the last word raised Aziraphale’s hackles.

“Well I don’t think we really have a choice in the matter.” He let the words hang icily there, his lips pursed. Crowley didn’t deserve that. He probably felt like half-baked minced pie after the meat grinder hell had put him through. He should be kinder, more forgiving of his companion’s snappishness. Still, to hear him voice Aziraphale’s own worry, and indicate that perhaps he _had_ made the wrong choice was not something he really felt like he could deal with just then. Rather than address it, he put on a brave face and continued the tour. “Now, as I was saying, the den. I was thinking you could put some things here.”

Crowley made a noise that rolled around in his throat before deciding to emerge as, “bahh, things.”

“Your, your artworks?”

Crowley tilted his head to the side and frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

Aziraphale indicated the door. “Then this leads to the back garden.”

As they stepped outside, the demon shifted once again, this time to a more familiar gate, a proper saunter, and Aziraphale felt some relief. Slowly he felt they were returning to known ground. Comfortable ground. A hoped-for path forward. 

“Ah now this I remember!” The demon said with a serious grin. The garden was well-shaded and comfortable, canopied by trees and boarded by an ivy-covered stone fence. The grass in the back was trimmed neatly, but the hedges were getting spindly in places. ”Oh, but look at you. This will not do. Alright. Everyone. Listen up. Wild time is over. You will follow orders henceforth. You hear that Beechs? No more dead branches. Brambles. Shape up or ship out. And you! Invasive.” His voice grew increasingly dark and menacing. “Enjoy your final night on Earth!” A movement caught his eye and his attention flickered from the foliage. “Who’s that then?”

“Oh that’s the cat. It came with the place.” The black moggy in question tiptoed down a branch and disappeared under a bush. The cats had something to do with keeping them safe, according to the landlord, but he wasn’t sure of the logistics. “There are two of them actually.”

“What’s their names?”

“I don’t know if they have names. I’ve been jokingly calling that one an imp.”

“That’s a funny name for a cat.”

“Well, what would you name them?”

“I dunno. Proper cat name. Fluffy.” He turned then and sat down heavily on a rock there in the garden and looked around. “That’s it then?”

“That’s the lot of it. No garage I’m afraid.” Aziraphale glanced around, then pulled a miracle down to create a simple park bench. Crowley arched an eyebrow. “It’s alright,” he said, wanting to soothe any tenseness that threatened to settle on the demon. “As you could see from inside, I’ve been working miracles left and right. Not a peep from either side.” 

Aziraphale sat down. He’d been mentally preparing for Crowley to wake up, not knowing if it would be this week or years from now. He’d been trying for some time, since before the Apocalypse-that-Wasn’t if he were being honest, to figure out his feelings. For God, humanity, for heaven, and most especially for the strange being he’d twined with for thousands of years that he now had more or less made a pact to spend the rest of eternity with. 

Crowley groaned and rubbed his forehead.

“I’m sorry if it doesn’t meet with your standards.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry.” He let his hand run through his hair and turned his head to the side. “You think that’s what this is about?”

Aziraphale huffed, his hands fluttering from his lap of their own accord. “Frankly, I have no clue. This is not going to be easy for either of us I’m afraid, but if we were to split things up I do believe we could have space where we wouldn’t be intruding on eachother, if that were necessary.” 

“S not necessary.”

That pulled him out of his downward spiral. “What?”

“We’re in this together, right? You know that, right? I mean. I signed up for this. We signed the lease. And I just.” He sighed, an edge returning to his voice. “I feel like an utter wanker that you had to do this all alone.”

Aziraphale felt his shoulders relax and drop from their rise towards his ears. “I... It’s no bother.” He snapped then, and the crate of wine winked into existence. Two wineglasses and a single bottle sat atop it. He picked it up and held it out to Crowley. “Would you care to do the honors?”

“It is a bother, don’t you see?” the demon snarled. “It’s a bother to me.” 

“Well you’re going to have to get over it.” Again, he scolded himself for his frosty tone. He had to chide himself and remind that they had both been through a lot. Crowley was not growling at him. He tried again. “We both did what we needed to do to make it to this point, and I for one am not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“A gift,” he grumbled, more to himself, then seemed to settle himself into resignation. In one slick movement, Crowley slid himself onto the bench and finally took the bottle.

Aziraphale was still an angel of the Lord. If She continued to allow it, he would hold her grace within him, to shine Her light out on those who called to him. To continue, as he always had, to draw humanity towards the light. But he had seen another purchase in his heart continue to grow, a place different than the ethereal reverence and comfort he felt in God. Different from his attachment to the people of Earth.

The air sang with a frivolous curse, and the bottle’s cork disappeared. Crowley set it down, then snapped again to decant the wine to the perfect aeration. 

“Not a big fan of horses, gift or otherwise,” he stated and magically filled each glass. “Hmmmm. That felt…” he rubbed his fingers together. Picked up his glass. “Wicked.”

Aziraphale beamed at him and picked up his own glass. “Santé!”

“ かんぱい ” said Crowley, and downed his drink. “Oh that is beautiful. That’s the stuff.” He let himself ease back into his customary sprawl. ”Wine crate for a table’s a bit gauche though.” He brought a mosaic-topped black stone patio table into existence. He took another drink and said, “that wine is not going to last.”

“We did get more cases.”

“I’m going to have to get us some more. This place has a wine cellar, right?”

“I’m afraid not,” Aziraphale said, focusing on the complexity of the wine as it played over his tongue. Blackberries, ripe plum, a soft, lush mouthfeel.

“It does now,” Crowley said, sounding a bit giddy.

“Don’t tax yourself, dear. There’s plenty of time to work all the miracles you’d like.”

Crowley harrumphed, but there was no bite to it. “You’re no fun.” 

They sat there in the back garden together, existing until the sun sunk into the distance, until the air grew chilly and the sounds of birds retreated to be replaced by the hum of crickets. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come [talk to me on Tumblr](https://suvroc.tumblr.com/) :)


	3. Storm and Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They drank all the wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We leave the ground again, but not too far. An attempt is made to test the limits of their safety in more ways than one.

They drank all the wine.

Aziraphale didn’t want it to end: the wine or the night. He watched Crowley’s face, tilted as it was towards the sky, enthralled by how relaxed he had become. His wineglass dangled dangerously in his grip, swinging to and fro as he stared wistfully up. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what would come next, but he knew that this was what he wanted for him - for Crowley. Just this; all of the time. Maybe a little less drunk, but the sentiment was there. He reached out, hesitated, then asked, “might I take your hand?”

“You don’t have to ask, angel.” His voice was mellow. He shook his head and toppled slightly to the side. “You can have my hand, whenever. You can sit next to me on the sofa, whenever. You can come to bed, whenever.” Aziraphale felt his eyes grow large. Crowley reached over and let their palms slide against one another, just the gentle ease of the two of them fitting together.

“I suppose it seems a bit silly for me to ask doesn’t it? After all we’ve been through.”

Crowley continued to totter his head side to side. “Not silly.” He held up their joined hands. “Gotta remember it myself.”

“Well. Thank you for reminding me. I, er, didn’t know if we had to set boundaries. Out loud, I mean. Or or declare ourselves to be….” He paused, licked his dry lips. “…anything.”

“Back when we escaped hell,” Crowley mused into the night, “you said you’d be muu, mine. If I’d have you. If I’d have you?” he glowered into his empty glass. Aziraphale tucked his chin and smiled. “Now that was a silly thing. Of course I’ll have you. Been yours for quite sssome… some time." After a moment, he shifted closer on the bench. Then closer still, until their sides were matched together tightly, their legs meeting in a solid line of connection. “This, ok? Not too… too…” he swallowed. “too much?”

Aziraphale shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe this was allowed, here, under the heavens and everything. It _was_ too much, but if he were being honest, he wanted it to be. 

“You’re the easy part,” Crowley said, giving his hand a little squeeze. “if you can believe that,”

He chuckled softly. “What’s the difficult part then? Perhaps I can help.” Crowley frowned. No. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t what Crowley needed. “Perhaps we can… work together,” he said, and Crowley turned to him. He could see stars reflected in his dark glasses. Could feel the warmth between their bodies, even in the cool black of night. (Crowley was so warm.)

“Do you think…,” Crowley’s voice twisted, crumbling at the edges. “What if we leave here? Will they see us?”

“They?” Then he realized the question. The cottage itself was a safe house. A place of safety, thanks to the lease they’d signed with the Guardian of Limbo. Neither heaven nor hell had control here; it was hidden to both. But, outside the jurisdiction of the property. That he wasn’t quite sure of.

“If I, I dunno, go to London. What if I fly to London to get the Bentley,” he asked. “What happens then?”

“Well.” Aziraphale let his fingers flex and constrict, feeling the fragility of each birdlike bone in Crowley’s hand. He never wanted to let go. Couldn’t they just be tipsy and content, if not forever, just a little while longer? “What if they do?” Crowley sputtered, but Aziraphale continued. “May I remind you that we have survived them. They may be the enemy, or they may not.”

“They tried to kill us. They tried to destroy us – of course they’re the enemy!”

“They might be concerned about bigger things now. We don’t know. We may never know.” He eyed him, considering. “We will take whatever precautions we can, but we cannot live in fear.” Crowley’s mouth was still downturned. He looked haunted, and it troubled Aziraphale to no end to see. “Perhaps we should go in.”

Crowley’s shoulders grew rigid. Anxiety had returned, fighting with desire, and his whole body was tense with the strain of not allowing either emotion to win out. “I just want to be left alone,” he said, his voice betraying him on every level. His eyes were barely visible above the edge of his glasses, golden-orange in the dim light. “With you.” 

At that, Aziraphale pulled him close, bringing their chests flush. Their tandem revealing heartbeats, left to their own devices, struck a cadence that was almost painful. It was so wonderful and so odd and so nerve-wracking all at the same time, Aziraphale wondered how humans could stand it. “You are.” He felt a tremble in his grip. He wasn’t sure if it was his arms, or demon beneath them. Possibly the tremor came from both. He felt Crowley’s fingers grasp, felt him shutter. His wounds, physically, had all but healed, but there was a deep coal that remained hot beneath the ash of burnt-out fuel.

Crowley pulled back.

“You went to hell because of me.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Does that upset you?”

Crowley brought his hands up to rub his eyes under his glasses. “Of course it does!” He groaned.

“You don’t always need to be the rescuer.”

Crowley looked as if he were going to argue the point but instead made a disgruntled sigh. He stood. “Maybe I could fly up, just a bit. Stay close. See if anything happens.”

Fly up. The night could end a number of ways, Aziraphale thought. He could continue to argue, either attempting to alleviate the fear of attack that still seemed to claw at the demon, or convince him that nothing more could be done about it. Or, he could resign himself to the fact that he was going to have to let his drunken friend (Companion? Something… else?) live out his needs, whatever they may be. He, and the large longhaired grey cat that was suddenly perched on the bench at his side, looked up into the clouds.

He glanced at the cat, then back at Crowley.

“Could I come with you?”

“’Course angel. Anything you like.”

Crowley held out his hand. Aziraphale took it. 

Crowley shrugged his shoulders, and the night was darkened further as the black points of his wings opened around them with a ruffle of feathers. “Just a little bit up. Here. Let me.” Before Aziraphale could release his wings, Crowley pulled him in. As he did so, he stroked his hand over the space between his shoulder blades and slid it down to rest tightly at his hip. When he spoke, his voice was stronger and more imploring. “Best you sober up. Put your arms around me for now. That’s right. Let me carry you this time. My turn. Hold on.”

And they shot into the sky.

He felt Crowley’s muscles flex as they rose, the fierce wind streaming through his hair and over his body, clean and fresh, growing colder as they climbed. They sprinted upwards, higher and higher, way above the rooftops, shooting through the clouds. 

“It’s a bit different now, innit? What with radar. And airlines. And, outdoor lighting.”

“Quite.” He leaned his head into Crowley’s chest.

“You know,” Crowley said, voice tilting in a familiar conspiratorial way. “There could possibly be a power outage. West of London? Tonight. All dark.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

At the zenith of their ascent, Crowley flung his wings out wide and held them there in the still and the quiet. Their needless breath made puffs around them in the cold. It was the only sound. Their breathing – in, out.

They gazed about from that height, catching glimpses of the seaside and the town below through breaks in the clouds. The ocean was a liquid mirror, reflecting the sky. It moved with the slow eerie undulation of dark matter, quiet and beautiful. Aziraphale shivered. 

“Feel anything?”

He was strangely dizzy, and not from alcohol or the altitude. “I feel something. And it is determinedly not anything from our former bosses.”

A half-grin quirked the demon’s mouth, and his tongue flicked out once. He may have winked; it was hard to say. “You are ridiculous.”

“I’m a romantic, there’s a slight but important difference.”

“What’s that?”

“Not even a fool would fall for his immortal enemy.” 

He drew Crowley in and kissed him. Crowley went willingly into the embrace, tightening his hold and tucking his face to fit into place. So soft, uncompromisingly so. These bodies were a marvel of design. He parted his lips and tasted the wine-damp interior of Crowley’s mouth. He ran his tongue along his teeth and, drawing a moment of pause, dove back so deep he felt he might be lost.

Crowley’s mouth was moving against his, not hesitant but careful, as if learning the way. He was aware of his sharpness. Opening a little too wide. Moving a little too much. Dropping his aloof disposition in an ardent display of need.

Dropping.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried.

They were falling, plummeting out of the sky, twisting like burnt paper. The demon’s wings had gone limp, trailing behind like black feathered banners. 

“I got you,” Crowley’s voice was a rough whisper torn from his throat. His arms, like a constrictor, wrapped tighter around his angel.

The descent was faster and harsher than the climb. The air was stolen from Aziraphale’s lungs as they fell, tears pulling from the corners of his eyes, the roar of the wind deafening. He held Crowley in a death grip, and did not look away, even as the ground raced up to meet them. Even as the stars shot past and the lights of the town blurred red and yellow. 

All at once, Crowley threw his wings out again, and they coasted briefly upwards.

He clung to him, heart hammering, gasping as the thrill. Of course, there was no danger. He had never been in any real jeopardy. Still, he’d played enough games in his mind that it was easy to forget. Easy to relinquish control.

“That was,” his eyes shimmered, “oh dear lord.”

“Sorry,” Crowley said with a touch of chagrin, his chest heaving. Then he scrutinized the angel. “Are you ok? I didn’t mean…it was just for…” As they landed back on the ground, his sentence cut off as he took in the flushed windswept look of the being he held so tightly in his grasp. He vanished his wings and ran his hands through the angel’s candyfloss hair.

Without a second’s hesitation he crashed their mouths together, all hot and wet and wanting. Their hands pawed and grabbed like wild animals. The angel’s fingers scrambled against tucked shirts and tight trousers to expose more areas of Crowley’s skin. Crowley grabbed him by the wrists, halting their unrelenting plunge towards intimacy. He was panting. They both were. “Do you want me?” 

“Yes, oh yes,” Aziraphale said with breathless demand, “take me to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for hanging in there. Next chapter we start earning our E rating. 
> 
> Please come [talk to me on Tumblr](https://suvroc.tumblr.com/) :)


	4. Oil and Sweat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was inside Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter rated E for being pretty much one long sex scene. Plus two flashbacks. Of more sex.

He was inside Aziraphale.

He felt everything pool there, at the junction of their bodies, his eyelids barely shut, feeling drunk beyond thought. This. This encompassed the trust they’d shared swapping faces. This drew from the otherworldly tryst of Touching in their true forms.

_ Fucking is a goddamn fucking trip. _

Crowley thought back to that first night in the cottage, after his asinine aerial stunt had revealed what he’d known all along about the angel’s prince-in-peril complex, and his own proverbial white knight syndrome. They’d raced up the stairs like teenagers, shucking their outerwear as they went. Aziraphale had flung open the door to one of the extra rooms where he’d apparently set up his second-floor bed, resplendent in a riot of tartan and calico quilts, and declared, “ta-dah! And this is the bedroom!” Crowley chucked his sunglasses off haphazardly into the corner where they landed on a perfectly situated cushioned ottoman. They made out standing next to the bed. Ever so carefully, Crowley had backed him up until his legs hit the mattress and buckled.

He’d gazed down at the lovely, luscious, fascinating angel who looked so decadently disheveled and smelled of night air. It was almost overpowering. Aziraphale crabbed backwards onto the bed, pulling at pieces of Crowley’s clothing as he went. His belt, his tie, his untucked shirt, and Crowley scrambled after him.

“Have you,” Aziraphale breathed between kisses, “have you done this before?”

“What, sex?” he’d asked, then another kiss, struggling to control his desire to rip Aziraphale’s shirt wide open. “I have. Some. Attended a few snake orgies, rather by accident,” he’d admitted, not sure quite why. Seemed improper not to. “Not so much with the humans. Never with you.”

“No,” Aziraphale grinned, “I think I would have remembered that.”

“What about you?”

“Oh yes, oodles of times.”

“Really? You heathen. I should’ve’ known.” He pushed him back into the soft pillows and pulled at his bowtie. “Not with snakes though I’ll bet.” The next words had come unbidden: “damnit, I want you. I want you so bad.”

He had. For so many uncountable years.

There was so much to remember. So much he didn’t want to remember. The longing. The pining. It hurt. He had become a master of memory. It was the only way to survive. But he had to… to hope, even when he didn’t believe it, that someday he might get to touch. Someday he might get to have.

Still couldn’t believe it at times. Even now. Even long after that first faltering night when he’d tasted Aziraphale, all sweet-tart and forbidden, on his tongue. To be able have him still seemed the most unbelievable of sins. As time passed and they grew to know each other’s physical bodies in so many different arrangements, he still wanted him so damned bad. 

He had him now, one of the angel’s legs thrown up over his shoulders and the demon comfortably buried, three fingers deep, smoothly gliding a well-oiled Benediction in and out of Aziraphale’s ass. 

“Please, keep going.”

Crowley nodded, relishing every millimetre of sensation, every pull and grasp of the rings of muscle dragging and releasing his long slender fingers. He took such pleasure in easing him open, feeling the delicious prelude that, sometimes, in and of itself, was enough to make him come.

They were both nude, Aziraphale’s arms stretched up over his head, attached to soft leather restraints woven through the slats of the headboard. As proper a visage as Aziraphale presented to the outside world, Crowley had, though countless hours of late-night wing grooming and early morning pillow-talk, discovered the sybarite that lay just below the surface. Whatever books he’d kept stashed in the darkest corner of his shop, or experiences he’d had revealing exaltation to the beings of Earth, had given the angel years of material he was only too willing to unleash upon his demonic partner. (And yes, for now, since Aziraphale needed to call them something, and Crowley refused to let him use the term “paramour,” they’d decided on partners.)

Crowley’s body felt loose and liquid, skin-to-skin contact making him heady. He licked a path across Aziraphale’s belly and chest. He came to the bump of a nipple and took it into his mouth, laving his tongue, thick and forked, as it tended to get when he was aroused, over and around it. At the inhale of Aziraphale’s breath and the knowledge of how sensitive he was at this particular point of the body, Crowley reached up and pinched. 

The sound that fell from the angel’s lips was pure decadence and urged him on. He rolled the nipple between thumb and forefinger. “Ahhhh! Mmmmm,” Aziraphale strained against the leather and wriggled under his grip. “Please, can you get the clips?”

Crowley snapped, and two dainty clamp-style nipple clips appeared. They fell gently onto the angel’s chest, and he made an, “ooo” noise as the cold metal touched his skin. He could have warmed them with a thought, but the angel enjoyed the sensation and shock of the temperature change. Crowley carefully eased them into place, asking as he went to make sure everything was alright. “Do you like that?”

“Yes!”

They were quite taken with the toys. Such clever filthy buggers, those humans he thought with indolent admiration. Although it had been Aziraphale, that absolute lotus-eater, who first introduced the idea, having had a shop nearby in Soho that dealt in such commodities. Aziraphale, who usually manifested a cock, had tried out other constructs on his own throughout the years and had revealed that one of his favorite sensations was the nipple clamps, and not making an effort. “Going au natural,” he teased. He would lay a large vibrator to his smoothness and had said he found the thrumming through his pelvic area very enjoyable. Crowley felt a bit dense for never having tried. 

“I can show you how it works,” the angel had said coyly, and Crowley had fallen over his own feet to agree that yes, that sounded like a super idea. 

He’d sat on the bed behind the angel, who’d undressed and showed Crowley what types of clamps he owned, and how he liked to apply them. “Very slow, like this. Don’t let them bite down too quickly. Mmmm hmmm?”

Crowley had kissed his shoulder, feeling the fine hairs there tickling his lips. He did not blink as Aziraphale took out a wand-style vibrator and clicked it on. “It is so satisfying,” he had said, and laid it against the expanse between his legs. “Oh yes,” he reached an arm back to loop it around the nape of Crowley’s neck. “Oh, if you could feel what this is like!” 

“You’re beautiful.” Crowley had let his eyes fall shut as he said it and sunk his mouth down onto him, kissing and sucking.

Aziraphale laughed lightly. Fucking lord how he loved that sound. “I’m glad you’re here with me,” he said, and took Crowley’s hand and placed it to a button on the wand. “Click this.”

Crowley gasped as he did so. Their arms were entangled, limbs and hands interlaced. The vibrator kicked up a notch and Crowley could feel it reverberate through his own frame; an other-worldly buzz that made him wonderfully woozy. Sliding his whole body along Azirapahale’s back, he felt himself pulled inward, closer. Aziraphale was so soft, so perfect to touch, such a respite. For a moment, he believed he was falling into a pool of body-warm water, so silken and so pleasing. He thought he might be having a moment of Déjà vu; which he knew about in theory but could not recall ever having experienced.

Then, something else happened - something not at  _ all _ human.

“Oh!” said a voice, and for a moment he couldn’t place it. It had sounded like his voice, but he had not said a thing. He opened his eyes and then instantly had shut them again. The world spun. His voice rang out, but not his words, “oh dear! This is awkward.”

He was inside Aziraphale – actually inside his corporation - but they had not swapped bodies. They’d done the reverse. Apparently, the bodies had stayed where they were, but now Crowley’s essence inhabited the angel’s form. He lay, legs a-spread, feeling the pinch of the clips and the buzz of the toy, and behind him, long arms snaking across his ample chest, was Aziraphale.

“Uh,” he said from Aziraphale’s body, and clicked off the vibrator.

“Oops.” Aziraphale-as-Crowley had said, eyebrows raised over naked gilded eyes. “Well my word, I did not expect that!”

It was baffling. It was a bit embarrassing. And, once they had worked out how to do it on purpose, they gave it a name.

They called it Playing with Fyre. 

He shook himself out of his daze and kissed down Aziraphale’s side, making him curl and shiver. The fingers of his one hand still working inside of him, he used his other hand to flick the nipple clips, listening to the sounds of pleasure, and feeling Aziraphale squirm beneath him. “You look so shameless right now, angel. You taste like light. I fucking…” 

_ Love you. _

He wanted to say it. He felt the words in the back of his throat, burning, but the first and only time he'd said them here in the cottage, Aziraphale had winced. He probably hadn’t even noticed he’d done it. It was fine. He could respect if he still had a hard time hearing them. And so he kept the word separate. Separate from everything - a thing that existed, that they could feel and look at, but that he dared not mention. Especially not while fucking.

So instead, he left the sentence unfinished and maneuvered slowly back and away, finally pulling out of him. They both sighed at the loss, and he surged back in, a retreating and approaching wave. Kissed him fiercely. Aziraphale’s lips welcomed him in, murmuring appreciations. Crowley shifted their bodies so that he could make his angel more comfortable on his pile of pillows, releasing his leg and letting him stretch and relax. Then back again, running his hands slowly over his thighs, moving in a smooth serpentine motion to press his legs back. He gazed down at him, at what he'd prepared. Starving.

“Still ok?” he managed.

“Oh yes, so good. Please, please take me.”

Crowley took hold of himself and eased the tip of his cock, wet with precum and too much lube, into Aziraphale’s plush ass, relishing every gorgeous dirty debauched sound the angel made. “Yes. Noises,” Crowley growled. He wanted to devour them all. He slipped in further, each inch by painstaking inch eliciting breathy gasps of pleasure. Fuck, every single one of them. He rolled into him, burying his cock, feeling the strain of his hips to drive even deeper. He dug his fingers into Aziraphale’s thigh muscles and pushed.

They started again. A pulse of motion. Crowley sliding his cock in, moving his hips just so to stroke the spot of greatest sensitivity. Aziraphale starfished his shackled hands opened and closed, his head thrown back exposing all the folds and creases of his neck. 

He could do this for ages. He could do this forever. The way the angel bore down on him as he paused, waiting for the fervor to become too great to bear. And then, the shift into the next gear, increasing the speed while letting his mind slow to a crawl. Let the feeling overtake him all. Dulling his thoughts to only the physical.

“Yes,” the angel said, his voice charged with a rich timbre of lust. “Faster. Oh let us Play with Fyre tonight!” 

Crowley’s expression grew foggy.

_ Just don’t think. Just fuck _ . He told himself.

He raised himself higher on his knees, pulling Aziraphale’s legs wider apart, steadied himself to thrust into him.

_ Don’t think of him. _

Something felt wrong. He felt his rhythm stutter, and he hated himself for it. _No, it's ok. You can think of him now. Here. It's ok. No one is listening to your thoughts here. No one is going to drop into your head unannounced._

He thought about switching. He thought about becoming an angel.

_ You were an angel once. _

_ Oh, God. _

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice pulled him from his drifting mind, but this time there was a note of concern in it.  _ Damn it. _

“Sorry. I’m thinking of you,” he huffed, trying to bring his brain back online.

“I’m right here.”

“I know,” he kissed him a bit too absently, and Aziraphale’s look grew serious.

“Yellow, my dear.”

Oh. Yeah. That. They had safe words now, too. A standard green, yellow, red system, where green meant go, red meant stop, and yellow meant the demon was making the angel worry again.

“What is it. Where did you go just then? Please tell me so we can continue what I am finding to be a very agreeable evening. Are you alright?”

He gritted his teeth.  _ Of course I’m alright. Why wouldn’t I be alright? _

“I… wanna fuck you.”

Aziraphale nodded, “oh I want you to fuck me.”

“Mmmm,” Crowley moaned, “say that again.”

“Would you like to fuck me?”

“Yeah,” he said and rolled into him a little bit.

“Will you fuck me hard?”

“Yeah,” he said, and thrust his hips forward.

Aziraphale met his eyes. “No Playing with Fyre then?” Crowley wavered, then shook his head. “Is that alright? You fuck me senseless into the bed until I can’t talk, and then you release me and hold me until you fall asleep, does that sound good?”

Crowley was moving his hips faster. “Yessss, please let me, is that ok?”

“Can we talk about it in the morning?”

“Fuck yeah, fine. Sure. Yes.”

“Green. Do you say green?”

“Green, yess,” he said and ramped up a punishing rhythm. The bed creaked and groaned beneath them, held together by sheer will, as the headboard crashed an unearthly tempo against the wall.

“Oh yes! Fuck me! Damn it!”

He rode him hard and rough, Crowley relishing every sensation he could. He looked down at Aziraphale, head nested in soft pillows, clamps bouncing and making themselves known at every jostling movement. His perfect petal lips were open and wanting.

“More.”

_ You almost fucked this up, _ he seethed at himself, _ you almost ruined this. _ He began to speak in tongues, spewing ancient curses in forgotten languages to cover his thoughts. 

“Oh darling, you sound so wonderful when you speak glossolalia, yes. More. I want to hear it!”

Their eyes met; the angel’s, salaciously storm-dark, and Crowley’s blazing, fixated like a hawk on his prey. He couldn’t breathe. Didn’t need to breathe. He could feel the choking sting of it build in his throat, in his core: the need to unleash his tightly controlled and hidden self. He pounded into Aziraphale with reckless abandon.

_ God I love you, God and Christs and Satan himself, fuck God, I love you so much. I want to have you angel, I want to give so much I destroy myself trying to give you more. Bleed out into you, break my limbs to shield you, take all the pain from you, take your pain and make it mine, keep you safe, you always you it was always, always you. _

He thought the words, but did not say them. Instead, he uttered one final line:

_ “Come for me.” _

A string of panting, groaning sounds of affirmation came from Aziraphale as he arched back into the mattress. Crowley drove deep inside, over and over until the noises rose in pitch and volume, and Aziraphale came, untouched. Hot cum pulsed from his fat cock in spurts. Crowley opened his own mouth in a silent unhinged scream, feeling the cries reverberate through his skull, pleading, beseeching, a physical sensation traveling through him, touching every ounce of him. He came, deep in stuttering pulses. He was burning up, slick with sweat, feeling to all the world like he would melt into a puddle at the retreat of Aziraphale’s voice, which even now was fading into the dying night. 


	5. Coffee and Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It really is something,” Crowley said finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are introduced to the bathtub (via a flashback). Crowley and Aziraphale have a lot to discuss, and some important things to admit.

They both stood in the doorway.

“It really is something,” Crowley said finally.

“That’s what I thought.” Aziraphale nodded. “Frightfully illegal. What sort of reprobate would have put something like this into a nice cozy country house, do you think?”

It was the evening of their second day in the cottage, and they were staring into the bathroom. It sat innocently enough between the two upper story rooms, halfway down the hall behind a nondescript wooden door. It was as big as the bedroom, with a toilet off to one side and a dual sink and stand-alone shower on the other.

The centerpiece was the bathtub. It was raised up and set in a square tile surround, twice as wide as a normal tub, the basin soaking-quality depth. There was a golden curved faucet head directly to the front, and it had built-in handrails to allow a safe entry and exit.

“I’d like to shake their hand, whoever it was. Quite a piece of work. Surprised it hasn’t fallen through the floor.”

“Reinforced I believe. Otherwise there would be no way to fill it with water. It would be too heavy.” Aziraphale took a seat on the edge, running his hand over the spigot. “I daresay one could swim laps in the thing.” 

“Wanna try it out?”

The angel cocked his head at him, an inscrutable look on his face.

“I mean we could just fill it up,” he amended. “See if it comes crashing through the ceiling. If you don’t want to, no worries. Don’t need to.”

They’d just returned from the trip to London. After their first time together, Crowley, in the vernacular of the well-shagged, had declared: “Fuck fucking Gabriel and his gimpy weasel face. Fuck that poisonous bunch-backed toad Hastur. We’re winging it to London, and I’m driving the Bentley back.” And so they had. Once they’d parked the gleaming beast of an automobile out front and settled a few things they’d brought back with them into the confines of the cottage (Mona Lisa now smiled contemplatively into the den, and the Maltese Falcon found roost amongst a confused collection of vaguely distressed houseplants), Crowley had declared he wanted to see the rest of the second floor. 

Aziraphale turned the handle to the bathtub faucet. The pipes coughed and sputtered, and they both started. Then the water began to pour out red.

“You rig this up to pour wine?*” Crowley asked jovially, but then saw Aziraphale’s face. The angel had blanched, and his mouth was set in a flat line. “Rust,” the demon said, coming to stand next to him. “I would imagine. Just rust. Let ‘er run a bit.” Aziraphale didn’t tear his eyes away from the flow.** Crowley looked at him nervously, then back at the water still gushing red. He made as if to snap, but the angel reached up and stopped him. “I can change it,” Crowley said. “Clear it up if it bothers you.”

“No. It’s fine. Here.” He flashed a smile and patted the flat surface of the tub surround. “Sit.”

Like a Jacob’s ladder toy, Crowley collapsed in pieces to fold in next to him. He let his arm fall over his shoulder like a sash. He could do this now. Satan fuck all. Be close to him now. He nestled his chin into the divot of Aziraphale’s shoulder, cheek to cheek, watching. And waiting. Aziraphale brought a hand up to grasp Crowley’s, and he held him so tightly, he feared he could shatter bone. He concentrated on it. He liked it. He was conscious of it to the point of losing focus on the rest of reality for a moment. _Crush me,_ he thought, and was not surprised by where his inner dialog took him. _Whatever is frightening you, take it out on me. Give it to me. I can take it. I’ll recover._

It was as if the angel heard his thoughts, because a second later, he slacked his grip as water began to run clear. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!” He smoothed his palm over Crowley’s hand. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah yeah. M’fine.” He gazed at the water that was beginning to steam. “See. No problem.” He snaked out of his grip and sat across from him. Flipped the drain so the clear water started to fill the tub.

It was not the first, and certainly not the last time, Crowley had thoughts like that.

They did end up having a nice long soak together. The water grew bracingly hot, and the two of them stripped down, easing into the depths and groaning as they let the heat draw the aches from their muscles. Their bodies simmered and floated together, toes touching legs touching thighs hands until they fell together again, drifting and kissing in the ebb and flow of the ripples around them. Crowley ran his fingers over the handrails and commented on the Romanesque construction and how strong their set in the surround was. Below them, on the sofa, Fluffy and Imp engaged in some mutual grooming. Luckily for all involved, the tub did not fall through the floor.

\--

Aziraphale sipped tea. Of course he did. He was always sipping tea. It was mindboggling, excruciatingly normal for Aziraphale to be sitting at the kitchen table, fingers laced into the pages of a book, his tiny superfluous glasses perched on the tip of his sainted nose, sipping devil-forsaken English fucking Breakfast.

Crowley was terrified.

He didn’t want to talk about it.

He shouldn’t have to. He wasn’t the one to use the safe word. He didn’t tap out. He didn’t stop the heady exhilaration of having mind-blowingly hot kinky human sex just because his brain stupidly balked at the thought of inhibiting the body of a bound and helpless angel. 

_Fuck._

“Morning!” 

Aziraphale looked up and made as if to set his book aside. Crowley waved at it.

“No, yes, hi, go ahead. Keep your reading.”

Aziraphale slowly set his cup down. “Help yourself to tea,” he said, as he always did, even though Crowley rarely if ever drank the stuff. But he knew. He knew he’d still shuffle over to the tartan tea cozy and pour himself a cup. He was delaying the inevitable. Still, he wouldn't be a demon if he didn’t. He started to walk into his den.

“I gotta go check on the…plants. Want anything from the back garden?’’

Aziraphale let him go. Let him agonizingly wander his way outside to pace between the patio table and the perimeter wall. It was a mind-numbingly beautiful day. The kind of still-aired, blue-skied, lush, green, perfume-scented perfection that made humans in this part of the world run scurrying to marrow-suck the time for all it was worth. It was too bright. Too beautiful. Crowley grumbled and went back inside. 

“Please come sit.” Aziraphale was exactly as he had been, only now he was shining those imploring eyes at him. Dirty trick. 

“I’ll stand, thanks.”

“If you can, I would rather you be close to me.”

Crowley groaned somewhat dramatically and sidled over to lean heavily on the wall near the table, close enough he could reach down and touch the angel’s shoulder if he wanted to. Right then, he didn’t think he wanted to.

They both waited in the thick silence until Aziraphale asked, “what happened last night, darling? You didn’t exactly say it, but it seemed as if there was something bothering you when I voiced my desire. I apologize for bringing up such a sensitive act in the heat of the moment. I should have discussed my desire to add it to our repertoire before-hand, but the inspiration struck, and I fear I was a bit too boundless in my enthusiasm.”

_Fuck God. No. It’s not you. It has nothing to do with you. It has everything to do with me._

“Eh. No it’s fine. Your making too big a deal out of it. I would’ve done it. You know I would have. Good, giving, and game, that’s me.”

Aziraphale sipped tea. And he waited. “I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to work. Perhaps there are certain things we need to discuss before we go further down the path. Certain triggering events in our history.” 

Crowley could be still as stone. He could stand here all day.

Aziraphale tried again. “If we do not want to talk about such things, that is completely understandable. But then I think we should determine if we need to establish some boundaries in the bedr ….”

“I love you.”

Aziraphale turned in his seat and gave him an odd look. “I know that.”

His chest felt tight, like certain things within it were not fitting there anymore and might burst forth and make a mess of the kitchen at any moment. What the hell was wrong with him? “I’m not just telling you so you know.” He said, the words finding their way around the tightness. “You still want boundaries. You still want things to be black and white. You still want it all to make sense. Is that why you’re so scared to say it?”

“That’s not,” his brows furrowed. He shook his head. “Scared? Whatever do you mean?”

 _Shit. Fuck. Shut the heavens up._ He barreled on. “Is it because angels love everything? Is that why you think it won’t mean anything? Because that’s fine. I don’t care. You can love everything. As long as I’m in the everything.”

Aziraphale looked truly lost. “Of course I do!” he said, and there was hurt in his voice. 

“Is it because you think demon’s can’t love? ‘Cuz that’s not true.”

“I have told you!”

“You never say it here.”

He watched with unbearable self-hatred as he saw the effect his words had upon Aziraphale. His face did not so much fall as take on the slow, steady fade of a disappearing sun. He wanted to stop it. Would do anything to stop it.

“Never mind. Forget I said anything. It’s fine. Doesn’t matter. Stupid thing.”

He started to push himself off the wall, but Aziraphale stood, sliding his chair back, which clattered across the floor. He rose with such speed that Crowley took a step back, misjudged the distance, and bounced hard against the wall, knocking his sunglasses dangerously askew.

Aziraphale held his fists together in front of his worn vest. “I haven’t told you here. On Earth,” he said as if deciphering a long-lost prophecy of Agnes Nutter. He faced Crowley head-on, scrutinizing. “Oh my dear. I didn’t realize. I hadn’t even thought. I suppose fear presents itself first. Emotions are our internalized senses, after all, showing us what we need and want.” Then he paused, lips pursed. “I didn’t mean to, oh bother.”

Crowley stared wide eyed. “What?”

The angel demurely averted his gaze. “Would you like to fix your glasses?”

Crowley, hanging on every word, gaped. He felt his breath hitch into the space between them. “Just. Can you?”

Aziraphale turned back slowly. With ethereal gentleness, he reached for the temple arms of Crowley’s sunglasses. He straightened them over the bridge of his nose and tucked the curved tips back behind his ears.

“I used to know how to play this game,” Aziraphale whispered, leaving his hands to rest on Crowley’s shoulders.

“Yeah.”

“This is… quite difficult.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m scared of saying my fears out loud. I’m scared I’ll make them real.”

Crowley stuttered a bit, then, ever so carefully said, “well, if you feel them, then they’re already real.”

“I’m scared I’ll give them power where otherwise they’d just fade away.”

“They won’t.” Crowley shoved the glasses up into his hair so he could peer into his angel’s eyes unencumbered. “I don’t want to ask for anything from you. Ever,” he stated. “But I need you to tell your complete pillock of a partner you love him sometimes.” 

“He’s not a complete pillock,” Aziraphale said firmly. “I understand you don’t like asking for things. You’re more prone to present options. Truth be told, I think we’ve both been on our own for so long, we are used to handling a lot of things by ourselves. Still.” He gazed at him with that faded sun look. “I think you are right. I have been avoiding saying it. But I need you to hear it. It is for you. I love you.”

Crowley felt his whole structure collapse with the removal of that burden. He hated that he cared so much about something so petty. So unbearably, soddingly human. But fuck, he cared. And, as much as he wanted to calm down and let it go and go off about his business, there was something else he needed to ask.

“Are you afraid of loving me?”

Aziraphale's eyes looked like rainclouds, and Crowley wanted to flagellate himself for causing this. If not for the reasons he’d proposed, then what? And did it in fact connect, as he feared it would, with the reason Crowley stumbled the night before?

“Take your time.” _Take all the time you need. Take the space between the stars. I’ll wait._

“No. You deserve an answer now,” Aziraphale said. “If I have learned anything from my most recent exploits, it is that there is only so much one can solve by stewing in one's own juices.” He took Crowley’s hand in his and squeezed it very tightly. “It has to do with our intimacy. At least in part. I enjoy sexual acts in this body the same way I enjoy eating or drinking or… not going for a jog.” That elicited a slight smile. “I engaged in these acts for… for years without you. And it just seems so paltry compared to what I know we are to each other.”

“It’s not a separate thing,” Crowley found his voice. “I love you when we’re drunk together. I love you when we walk through the garden together. I love you when we do the nasty together. I want to tell you that! And I don’t want you to flinch when you hear it because that makes me feel like…”

“…like you’re hurting me. I see that now.” He sighed, and finally let the words be said: “I didn’t say I loved you for fear that, if it were real,” he looked up with desperate eyes, “that would mean it could vanish.”

Crowley pulled him in and hugged him. He leaned back, supported by the wall, and held him. A part of him wished they were on Alpha Centauri, just then. Just for a moment. Just folding like molten metal into each other. Not having to be beholden to these atrocious (what the fuck was the Creator thinking!) emotions. But the window was open a crack, and the sun shone in, and it was such a beautiful day.

“It’s ok. Lotta things vanished for us, yeah? Both of us. That’s a smart fear. It’s ok.”

“But Crowley I will,” Aziraphale mumbled into his chest. “I’ll need to practice, and you need to hold me to it. Words are important, and I will endeavor to remind you that you are in fact the one I most adore in all this world.”

Crowley shifted his weight a few times. Ran his fingers over Aziraphale’s neck, and the sun was so very beautiful. “Thanks for saying something last night when I didn’t want to. M’sorry for that. Learning experience. I’ll try to be more aware. Next time.” He leaned in with gentle candor and kissed him, lingering, but chaste. Aziraphale let his eyes fall shut and bowed back with a relaxed ease of movement. When they parted, Crowley had shored his courage enough to broach the actual question he’d been asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to make it make any sense. But I know I need to talk to you. About it,” he said. “It’s fucking annoying, but I’m just going to keep thinking you’re thinking about it. Even if you’re not. So. I think we should talk about hell. And me. And the fall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Crowley most certainly wishes to take the credit, but it was [just an extraordinary cock up](https://www.foodandwine.com/news/red-wine-comes-from-taps-italy).  
> ** Even if it was just rust, [or something else](https://www.timesofisrael.com/satellite-image-of-nile-evokes-biblical-legend/), red water can be quite disconcerting. 
> 
> Thank you all again for reading! The next two chapters have been dubbed "the bathtub chapters" and will both be double-sized and rated E.


	6. Boiling Sulphur and Holy Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bathroom was burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“Can you bind the unicorn in the furrow with ropes, or will he harrow the valleys after you?”  
>  \-- Job 39:10 KJV_
> 
> CW:  
> \- Crowley's fall  
> \- Discussion of pain  
> \- Please let me know if other topics should be added.
> 
> This is a story about two traumatized beings coming together in a space of love, and I feel I should reference this diagram of [ What we think healing will look like vs. What healing actually looks like](https://i.redd.it/jifowrubri151.jpg).  
> 

The bathroom was burning.

It wasn’t really - it was engulfed in the metaphysical manifestation of betrayal and wrath. Anger. But not regret. Only the never-ending questions. Thousands of years’ worth. The angel couldn’t stop it, but he could feel each one like a strike to the chest, one after another. He could not stop this from happening, as much as he wanted to. 

Because it already had. Azirapahale thought he had prepared for that – for the awful feeling of helplessness which overtook him as they stepped through the doorway. He held him, back to belly, and the fire raged over them both. He let Crowley shield him.

It still burned. The fire curled and deliquesce and it fell. It fell.

The smell of it was rancid: acrid impurity and suffocating, paralyzing smoke. The seeping dank rot of death -- it became them. It was bad, then it was worse, and then it was as if the odor was a physical beast. It crawled up their nostrils and down their gullets and rendered their senses unable to suffer anything but the yellow-sick taste of it. It poured into their mouths like a living thing, a throat full of worms pulsing with pustulant hate. Breathing was impossible. Choking was inevitable.

And the heat. Like plumes of lava, too hot to sustain any Earthly body. Utter destruction. Crushing pressure. Nothing but element. Not flesh. Not rock. Not even air could survive. He could feel that what She created died here -- died a-thousand deaths. Seethed and simmered and fried to a crisp. To non-existence.

Everything except the flames themselves. The flames that danced like living things and shrieked and crackled with a chortling sneer. Fire that lived but did not live. Flames that burned to the extinguish of all else – spreading, consuming, gasping to dust, rekindling in perpetude. Flames could survive. 

This was when Crowley had to become flame.

-

It had not been an easy, nor a quick discussion.

Still, ‘fast’ was a relative term; even Aziraphale had to admit that. The time from industrial revolution to the present had brought about an obvious increase to all of human activity, ramping up population and technology to the point of almost incomprehensible change. It was impossible for one certain angel and one specific demon not to also be affected by the speed and fury of the world around them.

So at least it didn’t take them decades to parse the details of how best to have a conversation about something that could not be spoken of.

They’d brought it up, mostly in bits and pieces, over many nights, and many a bottle of wine. Some walks through the Downs, some meandering (or maddening, depending on how Crowley was feeling that day) drives through the countryside. The last of these, while not optimal, was always the most productive as far bringing taboo topics to the surface. While Crowley focused on keeping the Bentley running and on the road, Aziraphale took full advantage of the fact that he had a captive audience who couldn’t simply walk away to displace his issues onto his psychologically damaged houseplants. Wouldn’t be a bastard if he didn’t. That is, when Aziraphale himself wasn’t distracted by other things. 

“Oh, watch out for that sheep!” he squealed, clutching at the seat and bracing himself against the dash. The animal in question trotted off into the ditch as the car tore around the corner. 

“This is what I’m talking about. Ya need to trust me.”

“I do!” Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut as they rounded the cliffs, but then peeked out again and caught a glimpse of how very high up above the sea they were.

“I don’t know, angel.” Crowley said, and let go of the steering wheel. He pushed the accelerator down as he raised up on his toes and reached behind the passenger seat.

“Hands on the wheel! Hands on the wheel!”

“Eh, she’s got it,” he said, and settled back, dropping a tin onto Aziraphale’s lap. Removing his eyes from the horrors of the road, Aziraphale took a deep breath and placed both hands on the tartan box. Ah. Shortbreads. 

“That’s what it’ll all be about, right?” Crowley said as Aziraphale opened the box. “Trust?” He steered the car expertly along the edge of the precipice, skirting disaster. 

“I believe that is only a part of it,” Aziraphale said through a mouth full of biscuit, not quite calm, but at least he had butter and sugar in him. “I hope you already know I trust you. I trust you with my very life and ever so much more.” Munching, if not with contentment then at least with concentration, he continued. “Part of it is a lack of, or need for, control. Not just trust. I would think you have held onto your experience as a way to control them.”

“To protect you.”

“As I have told you, you do not need to be the savior.”

“It’s not that. It’s, eh.” Aziraphale watched as he wrestled with himself, and for a moment, he was sure they were done talking about it for the day. But then Crowley surprised him. “Angel’s aren’t supposed to go to hell. You went to hell for me, and that’s wrong.”

“I already made my decision.” 

“If I take you there again listening to me relate what happened, that makes me as bad as…” he trailed off.

The scenery went flying past them like a smeared oil painting. Aziraphale breathed out and set the biscuits aside. He reached over and laid a hand to Crowley’s knee, and the demon reacted by slowing the car a tad. 

“That would be to protect you then dear, not me.” His heart thumped in his chest, and his stomach suddenly felt filled with rocks. “I chose to leave heaven after my discorporation. I not only chose to leave, but I had no idea if it would work. I had no direction, no clue what to do or where to go. And do you know where I ended up?”

Crowley didn’t face him. He stared straight ahead and conducted the Bentley down the road with absolute and utter expertise. “Here.”

“With you.”

Crowley let the car cruise down the other side of the cliff road, a bit less manic. ”Can I tell you something you won’t believe?” he asked, hugging the descent with his automobile and smoothly conducting them down along the coastline. “I want to do this. I want you to see.”

“Thank you," he said, and his stomach started to unclench. He tried to convince himself it was because of the car ride. "I do not go into this lightly.”

“I haven’t told anyone. Ever. No one to tell. Well, unless you count me yelling at God, and The Almighty not listening.”

Aziraphale tried to be thoughtful. It was his best defense. This thing they were discussing -- it was, in part, an exchange. When Crowley raced around through the streets of London, of course Aziraphale had the power to stop him. He could combat it. He could govern the vehicle, he could play a tit-for-tat game trying to reshape the world so it would have to slow; he could right up and leave. But he didn’t. He respected Crowley’s ownership of this domain. His autonomy over the Bentley. Both of them wanted to quench their powerlessness in some way. When it came right down to it, they truly had no-one but each other from here on out. 

Surrender.

To that which they could not control.

Only then could they find relief.

“I have a proposal,” he stated.

\- 

“You really want to tie me up?”

“I really, really do,” Azirapahle’s voice dripped with truth. This time, they were nested in bed, in a sweaty pile of too-thick blankets, down pillows, and post-coital bliss. The windows were open to the summer night, but the stillness of the air did nothing to alleviate the warmth within the room. The sounds of crickets and the flutterings of a few nocturnal birds were the only things that passed through the gauzy curtains.

Touching the underside of Crowley’s arm, he ran his fingernails along the freckled plane of him just to hear him hiss. “I want to wrap you in intricate fastenings to which only I know the combination.” He threaded their fingers together. “I want to bind you beautifully. As tight as you like.” He grasped him firmly, in the way that always caused a reaction, and sure enough, heard a gasp of desire. The demon groaned and rutted up against him. “Does that sound like something you want?”

There wasn’t really an answer, not right away, not in words. Crowley swayed and moved alongside him, taking fragments of him into his mouth. A lick to his shoulder, a bite at his neck, a nip across his pectorals. Aziraphale closed his eyes and let him roll over him, so easy and alive. He imagined the intimacy of running a rope around his wrists and ankles, the way his neck would arch, the way the muscles of his body would look bound and trapped. He’d spent time seeing such displays performed by humans in many different venues and countries throughout the world, and had a folio collection of original woodcuts with some of the most fascinating and scandalous designs that he ached to try.

Crowley righted himself in the bed, braced up above Aziraphale in a cobra’s stance. “I don’t care to be beautiful. Want you to make it hurt,” he ground his erection down between Aziraphale’s thighs. “Is that something you can do?”

Aziraphale knew this had been coming, and he felt he was ready. “Tell me why you need me to make it hurt.”

“I like it. I like it when you make it hurt. I like it when you hurt me.”

Unease welled up within him. He recalled when Crowley had pushed him that extra distance to verbalize the specifics of his fear. He needed him to do the same. He needed more. “Is it that you trust I won’t hurt you too terribly?”

Crowley paused in his rise back to arousal. Settled down onto him, his full form prone across his body, head still raised. “Yeah. That. Also. Other stuff. It’s not so sexy.”

“You can tell me anyways. I would like that you do.” 

Crowley went still against him then sighed deeply. He resignedly rolled off and over to the side, speaking with trepidation. “I kept telling myself that nothing you said hurt me. Nothing you said mattered. Put it aside, I told myself. Not important. Hurt came from hell – not you. You’re pure. You’re good. You couldn’t hurt me, only they could.”

This was. Oh dear. He had not been sure what to anticipate Crowley’s answer would be. He had wondered what his explanation would be for the way he masked his enjoyment the few times Aziraphale had, by design or accident, over-exerting his physical strength on the demon, but this was not it. His mind raced to all the things he himself had set aside throughout their long acquaintance. All the glances he’d hidden. All the scab-picking and wound-gouging he’d done to Crowley, in jest or as a safeguard, or sometimes both, through all the years. 

“But I did hurt you.” He set the words out into the room as if he were balancing a delicate house of cards on the bed; a pointless exercise doomed to fail. “Things I said…”

Crowley’s hand crawled out of the darkness, found his fisted fingers in the sheets and drew them open, pulling them close. Laying them flat to Crowley’s bare sternum, he said, “anything you said was a gift. Any look at you. Any time I let my mind drift to you was a gift. And fuck, I gave m’self a lot of presents. But I couldn’t show it. You couldn’t show it either. You know that. It sucked, right? Pushing me away was how you could keep me safe.”

As prepared as he had thought he was, Aziraphale found it difficult to speak. 

“Hell? It fucking hurt. You know how it is. You can’t think for yourself. You just gotta be stupid. You get too smart and you get thrown in the pit. The worst thing though? The worst thing was that I couldn’t think of you. Do you understand that? In hell, they can read your thoughts like a billboard. I trained myself to forget you. I cauterized my care. I made you disappear.”

The windows were open to the summer night, and a warm breeze had picked up. The wind gusted and the curtains billowed into the room. With them came the sound of rustling leaves, feather-light, pitter-pattering against one another. 

Aziraphale had not let himself know how it was. He knew what he had been told. Knew what his imagination had forged. And he knew there were visions that his brain or belief still hid from him of Crowley's time in hell. The only time he had come close to being privy to Crowley's reality was when he wore his body to the trial. The fact that this was how Crowley had lived, how he dealt with the worry, was excruciating. 

“Anything in my life I’ve known with any certainty has hurt,” said Crowley. “You didn’t want to make something real by saying it? Well, this is the screwed up way I make things real. M’not saying it’s right. But I know that’s how it is for me.”

Aziraphale shakily found his footing again. “That’s not wrong. That’s why we can do it this way. There’s control. There’s safety." That was, after all, the point of this exercise in discussing the undiscussable. "So yes. To answer you, yes. I will not harm you. But I can make it hurt.” 

Crowley rose up against him, his whole body moving in as close to snake form as possible while still keeping a human vessel. His head bowed to lay frantic kisses across his throat. 

“Fuck.” His breath ghosted across Aziraphale’s clavicle. “Love you forever,” and they were lost once again to the passion. 

-

“It’s not going to be,” Crowley made air quotes, “’nice’. It’s not ‘good’.”

“I certainly would not expect it to be.”

“There’s gonna be smells. Like, bad smells.”

“It is true that brimstone is not my favorite effluvium.”

Crowley was sprawled like a blanket across the sofa, scaled feet resting on Aziraphale’s lap as the angel practiced ties. Nothing serious, really. Just feeling the rope. Feeling Crowley’s bare ankles under his fingers. Wrapping and unwrapping the designs and perfecting his knots.

The demon leaned back on his elbows and raised his head. “Do you have a favorite effluvium?”

Aziraphale threaded the rope in an intricate, web-like pattern, then took the two ends and cinched them tightly into a knot. The practice rope was made of soft bamboo fibers and was more responsive and receptive to reties then what they would eventually be using. He strung the cord quickly up Crowley’s legs, securing in a number of spots until he reached his knees. 

“Petrol, I should think.”

“Petrol?”

“No? Burnt caramel then, if that counts. How does that feel?”

Crowley shifted his legs and wiggled space between the rope and his body.

“No, that simply won’t do.” Aziraphale answered to himself and undid the cord. He started on the tie again. “Now then. Let’s return to our goals.”

Crowley reached to the coffee table to pick up his wineglass. “I need to tell you about what happened to me. My fall. And my time in hell. So you know,” he drank some wine and continued, possibly a bit too matter-of-factly. “Because otherwise, you’ll always wonder, or I’ll always think you’re wondering. So I’m going to tell you in a way you’ll understand, but like, that’s gonna be,” he gulped the rest of his wine. “Tricky.”

“And hopefully, we can recognize what this is to both of us.”

Crowley miracled another glass of wine. Shook his head. “You’re not gonna fix it.”

“I’m not here to fix it. I’m here to,” he paused. How had he wanted to word it? “Add to it in such a way that it may become something else.”

“Well. Add memories.”

"Bear witness." He laced the end of the rope at Crowley’s knees again. “Try that.” Crowley squiggled but found that his knees were locked together. “Ah!” Aziraphale said with a touch of delight. He smiled at Crowley, who peered back at him from behind his wine glass. “I am so glad you are amenable to this approach. Rope play has been a thought of mine for a long time, but I hadn’t yet found a way of bridging the topic. It’s not quite as interesting with only oneself. I ended up having flashbacks to my times tying rigging on ships. Very damp, ships.” 

“Sounded like something you wanted to do. Mmm, glad to be of service.” He slurped more wine, and swallowed his next lines with a mouthful of the French red blend. “S’thing for me too, being sssecured.” 

Aziaraphale couldn’t keep his smile from growing, although he tried to tamp it down. He had hoped that Crowley might have indulged a fantasy or two on the subject of being bound, but he didn’t want to get too attached to the idea, in case being restrained brought up some sort of other bad reaction. Being that ‘bad’ things seemed to be perceived or accepted differently by those of the demonic persuasion, he had a hard time even reasoning what a trigger for a demon might be.

“You’re going to have to go way harder than that though,” Crowley said. “I have pants tighter than this.”

“Wily serpent,” Aziraphale said fondly, but knew it was true.

“It won’t be this.” Crowley said, without malice.”It’s not crochet on the couch.”

“I understand.” Aziraphale said the words breezily. He knew he was taking a note from the human race - to laugh so you don’t cry. To combat unknowable trauma with flippantry and humor. Sometimes, that was all they had. Still, he knew on some level that he was trying to protect himself from serious things. And there were serious things to be seen to. “Now. Remind me of what is off limits. Either physically or otherwise?”

Crowley stopped for a moment and collected himself. “No actual holy water. Don’t wanna talk about the time before, not here. This starts with the fall. Don't deadname.” He bent his laced legs off Aziraphale lap and slithered to seat himself there instead. “You get to hurt me. I don’t want to hurt you. Physically. And all the stuff I’m going to show you is just illusions. Won’t hurt the house. If anything gets to be too much, you tell me.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Yes.” He ran his fingers to play into the hairs at the nape of his neck. He was warm. Crowley was always so warm.

“What about you?”

Aziraphale shook his head a little. “No real hellfire. Also, I do not wish to humiliate you.” 

Crowley wound his arm around him and rubbed a hand soothingly over the angel’s shoulder. “Just don’t do your magic tricks then.” 

Aziraphale laughed, letting some of his tension out. “Other than that, I’m not sure I can think…”

“WhataboutGod?”

Ah. Yes. The actual, real, fully-taboo topic they had both been dancing around through all the many discussions. He’d been letting the thought settle in his brain, and apparently Crowley had as well. What _about_ God? To his (somewhat ashamed) relief, Crowley continued. “Probably going to blaspheme. If I wanna say ‘fuck God,’ do you have a problem with that?”

Aziraphale, an Angel of the Lord, knew this. Knew it beyond certainty. He’d lied directly to God. He’d defected from heaven. He’d been to hell and back in the guise of a demon and set a one-angel rescue mission for same. He was pretty sure any line in the sand had been trampled over many a time, and from his own experience, if no other, his logical conclusion was that the fall had been a singular event. Obviously he’d seen Crowley scream at God in the past, and he'd convinced himself The Almighty was unconcerned with their actual opinions of Her.

“I do not have a problem with you telling God to fuck off.”

Crowley set his half-empty glass aside and grabbed his angel’s face, pulling him towards him and kissing him full on the mouth. “You, Aziraphale, are both the best and the worst angel in existence.”

“I would question your research,” he sputtered, yet smirked. Then, he kissed him back. “You taste like wine.”

“You didn’t get any!” the demon cried with shocked countenance. 

Aziraphale shook his head. “Oh, perhaps that is a limit. We do this sober. No cheating.”

“None, no, not ever. Here. You finish this,” Crowley said, but then brought his glass up and tipped it into his own mouth. He fisted his hand to the back of Aziraphale’s head and pulled him forward. Aziraphale had exactly 0.6 seconds (yes, he measured) to register the fact that the demon was in fact infusing his mouth with the wine. He let it pour over his tongue and down his throat and thought the pairing divine: dense yet silky. The angularity added depth. He pulled his mouth away with a wet pop.

“How do you continue to surprise me?”

Crowley licked Aziraphale’s lips. “I’m just that good. You’ve never been fed wine, angel? You’ve been living the wrong life.”

“Mmmm, not by you, my dear.” He hummed. “Well then, when shall we commence our scene?”

“Now that you’ve learned to tie properly...” Crowley unfolded back out of his lap and Aziraphale took to undoing the rope. “Uh, tomorrow? Tomorrow’s good. Or maybe next week?”

“What about next Monday.”

“That’s pretty definitive. If you’d like.”

Aziraphale’s hands were moving on their own now. He pulled the rope free, looped it loosely and set it aside. He rubbed up and down Crowley’s legs and stroked down each foot. His thumbs rubbed over the top where black scales glistened, then slid down the sides and pressed deep into the crux of his arch. The demon tried not to show how much he was enjoying the impromptu massage.

“You do know what happened on that day, don’t you?” Aziraphale asked.

“Loads of stuff, I’d imagine. Uh, Pillage of the Visigoths? Sack of Thessalonica? Muldavia’s Flag Day?*”

Aziraphale chose not to take the bait and continued squeezing his thumbs into the soles of his feet, secretly enjoying every point and curl he could coax from him. “Quite a memory you have. Funny though, seems a bit selective. You’re missing quite an important event that happened in fairly recent memory.” He ground a knuckle into the bottom of Crowley’s right foot until he grimaced, then groaned.

“Alright alright. Yes I know. The day the world didn’t end.” He did that thing with his lips he did sometimes while thinking; the thing that made him appear both adorable and incredibly unattractive at the same time. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I rather think it is.”

-

They had decided to start when they entered the bathroom.

The bath had been chosen for a number of reasons, not the least of which were the hardpoints which would anchor the ropes. It was an enclosed space, and it was the only room in the house that didn’t have any windows (save for the demonically-constructed wine cellar, but Crowley was adamant he’d never wanted to equate hell with good wine.)

How many times had they stood at a doorway? How many times had they crossed a threshold together? After Armageddon, on the night they swapped bodies, they’d stepped into Crowley’s flat, unsure of what the future held. The first time they returned to the Bookshop after all was said and done, when Aziraphale had held Crowley’s hand and reminded him that he was alright - that he was there - that the world hadn’t ended. Entering the cottage together, the place of safety. And now this. It seemed only fair. 

“Tell me green.”

Aziraphale locked eyes with him. “Green.”

And the walls burst to flame.

-

 _I don't want to talk about my fall._

Once. Long ago. After a battle he had no interest in. 

Crowley fell.

It was a long ways down.

And he asked why.

Why?

Why?

Why?

WHY?

Why?

Why.

.

..

...

why.

So many times why.

The answer was seared into his eyes. 

He was staring into the fire and flame once again. But now, like the skeleton of a burning Bentley, he controlled it. He held it together. Because, as if he were plunging through the dred sigil _Odegra_ all over again, this time he knew what waited on the other side.

He stood naked as he had then, feeling the chaos of neglect. To have been chosen for this -- to be chosen to be forsaken. The impact was sudden, violent, and it crumpled him. His skin flayed, the guise of his current comfortable form disintegrating. Gutted, turning him inside out. 

He glowed all red-black hot, spitting like sugar and sulfuric acid. The demon curved in a way a human body never would, twisting and growing longer. His head bent backwards, eyes straining to see into Aziraphale’s. Skin hardening to shell, he grew his sheen, his dark glossy scales. Viper’s fangs. As he became snake, his mouth gaped, swallowing flame and smoke. 

“Can we go on?” it asked.

“I can,” Aziraphale said truthfully. He stepped forward, and the sulfurous flames parted for him. “Can you?”

“Hrrrrg,” he moaned, rolling, curling in upon himself as if he’d been stabbed by the question. As if his body could do nothing to protect itself but writhe and contort. “Yessss.” The snake hissed. “I fucking swear.”

Aziraphale’s eyes blazed with blue light, and he nodded. 

A hot rain began to fall. It fell in sheets. It burned like dry ice.

Crowley recoiled. Tried to flee from it. But he couldn’t. It poured over him like a curtain of sharpened needles and would not stop, no matter what he asked. No matter how he asked. Until he felt he couldn’t ask any more. And still he asked. Begged. 

Because it hurt. 

He pulled himself together, as he had learned to do over and over again. Bone grinding to arm, ligament lashing to limb. He crawled with grasping barely-made fingers to the side of the tub. Clambered inside, where even now the blistering rain pooled into murky clouded depths. He sunk into it, but there was no relief. It sucked him down and blinded his yellow-burnt eyes to everything but pain and unrest. It ate at him in a million different ways and would not let him go.

Hiding. He was hiding what he was, deep down, and it made him sick. No one ever saw him like this. He hugged it, protected it, that one grain of sugar, that one grain of sand, that one spark of starlight. Through change and transformation, through terror and through choice, he held on to who he was, and he had to hide it. Shield himself. 

A hand plunged through the depths and grasped him, pulled him to the surface. He gasped like a newborn, and looked into the softest steely-blue eyes. Eyes that helped him forgive. He trembled before them. They bore into his celestial heart. They had seen him through so much and so many incantations. And now they were here, seeing where it all began.

“No regretsss,” Crowley’s voice fell desperately between them. 

The former guardian of the Eastern gate held him. He said the soothing things he knew he’d say. Called him gorgeous and wonderful and sweet. “You are all these things here. Anywhere. To me.” He cradled his face in hands too strong and too kind to be anything but his angel’s.

"You did nothing wrong," Aziraphale stated, and kissed him, and it was such a kiss of Earth, so solid and simple that Crowley nearly wished everything else away. Hell, heaven, illusions, and all. Just to kiss Aziraphale and have it be that real. “I want you.”

“Everywhere,” Crowley let his body go lax in his grip. “In me. I want you everywhere. Every surface of the world.”

With a thought, he let the rancid water drain away, let the rain lessen to a drizzle. Aziraphale pulled down a miracle and conjured the rope. He captured his arms and spread him wide across the expanse, from handrail to handrail, webbing the rope tightly to moor him. With knowledgeable and swift booksmith hands, Aziraphale bound a bodice of lines across his chest. He paused in his work only to lick a steady devotion over Crowey’s neck, the hollow of him there. That tongue that tasted cream and tea and cake, he ran it over Crowley’s nipples, savoring, sucking. All the while through the process they could not stop the affirmations that spilled from both their lips: “Yes, yes, yes.” 

Aziraphale withdrew and tugged on the end of a line, which stretched Crowley like a bowstring. He had prepared his wrappings with measured grace, and next moved to bring Crowley to his knees. He took those too-strong hands and ran them down the demon’s abdomen, to the effort he had manifested at the intersection of his groin. Aziraphale raked fingers back and forth over the patch of red hair, and it was a distraction from the bite of the cords, the twinge already beginning to rise between his shoulder blades. The discomfort of being tied heightened his nerves’ sensitivity, so by the time the angel was splaying two fingers to part the folds of his vulva, Crowley wanted to burst. Aziraphale dipped a finger shallowly into him, just lightly playing it along the edge of his cunt, and Crowley’s throat released the aching sounds of pleading and want. Aziraphale hummed and let his finger sink deeper. 

“So wet. Oh I can’t wait to take you. To fuck into you. But wait I must,” he said, and drew out again. He put the finger to his lips and tasted him. “Sumptuous.” Crowley whined, and Aziraphale dragged the rope down the split of him before helping to fold his legs in half. Pinioned there, he was tied ankle-to-thigh with a ladder-work of knots. 

Sliding his finger along the taut lattice of cord, he asked. “How does that feel? Tell me. Don’t hold back.”

“It feels good.” Crowley twisted his head and flexed his hands. It was about the only movement he could manage besides wrenching his hips from side to side. His mind was pleasantly fuzzed at the physical experience, so much that he had allowed the sides of the room to dim from raging flame to flickering light. “I feel good. Secure.” 

He appraised him. “Oh you are beauty. You are perfection. I want you. I couldn’t want anyone more.”

Aziraphale’s intense eyes did not leave Crowley’s body as he took his cock in hand. He stroked it with determination, and Crowley too could not draw his eyes from it’s hardening girth. The angel knelt between his legs and peeled him open like new pages. He moaned as Aziraphale spread his lips. 

“I am going to fuck you now. I can’t wait. Will you take me?” He stroked his cock, which pulsed in his hand. 

“Yes, fuck me; fuck me!”

Aziraphale sunk into the silken ease of him. Filling him. Crowley could only receive, and he tensed which drew him forward. He sucked in air through his teeth, then let it all out for him to drive deeper. Aziraphale began to rock into him, swinging him gently and slowly at first. Riding him as he swung. Crowley flexed his hands, controlling his muscles. The tightness and the relax, the exertion and release. It was Aziraphale. It was the angel. He was here, and it didn't matter where he was. He was here, oh he was here, and he was turning his arcane body to something sublime. 

The angel’s face was composed yet stern. His hands, even as they held Crowley’s waist as tight as a vice, were soft as silk. Crowley felt himself slid forward as he drove into him, harder now, moving to take him in earnest. Aziraphale’s cock grew wrist-thick, stretching him, completing him. He took and took, fed greedily upon him. 

The compression at all hinges of his joints; the roughness and bite of the rope, the coolness where water evaporated from his skin; the heat that still simmered around them; the allowance of numbness he gave himself in his extremities that would be dangerous to all but a demon. It all began to merge and meld. The stimulation coursed through him, dimming his brain, lulling him even as it grew to overwhelm him. His throat grew parched from calling out inarticulate guttural noises. Louder, and louder.

All it took to tip him over the edge was Aziraphale’s simple phrase:

“Let go.”

Crowley cried out, sobbing as he came. He didn’t know what to do. Water suddenly burst forth from some unseen place above. Heavy fog-like clouds filled the room like they were in the middle of some drought-ending deluge.

“Yes darling, yes I feel you,” Aziraphale kept thrusting, even as Crowley’s sobs continued. He convulsed once, straining to bring his head up just in time to see Aziraphale free his wings. They bloomed like fringed petals, the magnificence such that he could not look away. The angel began to beat the air, and the sound hid the thunder that began to rumble overhead. It cleared the fog. Like a deep and sonorous harp string it tolled, Aziraphale using the full force of his strength to sing it into him. 

Crowley, his climax never fully ended, let it surge forth again, winding around him like wire. It electrified, shocking every nerve with heat and light and force. He felt everywhere the ropes touched him wearing him raw like a brand. He had burned and been rebuilt, and at his core he was the same but would never be the same.

With a final thrumming of his wings, Aziraphale came in groaning euphoria, his eyes falling shut. He worked in and out of him, easing his way through the reverberations. Crowley’s knees rode against Aziraphale’s thighs, legs bound and useless, straining to flex but unable to give him any satisfaction of movement. 

“Please,” Crowley begged for he knew not what.

Aziraphale slowed, held between the walls of him, so incredibly thick, even after he’d spent within him. With a jolt, he pulled out, and Crowley felt his insides throb, wanting more. So much more. Aziraphale rose, and Crowley wanted to reach for him, to pull him back, but every inch of him was restrained from doing so. The angel removed himself from the desperate cauldron of demonic lust. With a lightness, he gathered himself at the edge of the basin, as if perched on a wall far above. He let his legs stretch languidly out, gently and easily crossing one fine calf over the other. One of his hands rested on the golden faucet head, the other ran sensuously along the smooth incline of his upper thigh. 

“That’s not the end of it,” Crowley’s voice broke. 

Aziraphale’s face was peaceful. “I know my dear boy. Don’t fret. This time I’ll be here for you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * In case you were interested in the [meta behind when the end of the world almost happened in the GO universe ](https://skyfall-good-omens.tumblr.com/post/623927709467279360/i-think-i-remember-hearing-that-the-series-was).


	7. The Flood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“...blood flowed from the winepress, as high as a horse's bridle. He …will drink the wine of God's cruelty, poured full strength into the cup of indignation, and he will be tormented with fire and sulfur in the presence of the holy angels”_  
>  \-- Revelations

_I don't want you to know how much it hurt to pine** for you._

The tub again began to fill with rain but not enough to submerge him. It smelled fresh and clean and sweet this time -- like apple blossoms.

Crowley’s body still surged with the effects of their union, the beating of his heart echoing in memory. The abrupt departure of the angel had left him aching, wet, and throbbing. He wanted, no, he _needed_ more, but that was not his path. It was time for him to take his place in hell ( _and angels aren’t supposed to go to hell_ ). He rocked back and forth, gliding on the few inches of water.

 _You control this,_ Crowley told himself. _Hold it together._

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he heard Azirapahle say. “I love you. I love you so.”

_He loves you. He loves you. Remember that if you forget all else. He showed you from the moment he met you that he loves you._

“Tell me what you need,” Aziraphale said.

“Tighten the ropes,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m slipping.”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and any slack in the waterlogged ropes cinched tight, constricting around him like a garrote. It stung against the wet worn surface of him, and Crowley felt seized and recaptured. The physical sensation pulled his mind back from feeding on itself, and he was grateful. 

“I need you here,” he said, his voice stable once again, “with me.”

“I am here with you, darling.”

He took a breath. He wanted the angel in him again at the same time he wanted him out of here. “But not too close. Stay up there.”

“You told me that it hurt you when we couldn’t touch. When we were apart.” He saw Aziraphale swallow, and Crowley felt his own face burn with shame at it. “When I reminded you we couldn’t be together.”

He was asking too much. They didn’t have do this now. They didn’t have to relive their time apart. He should just safeword out so they could have a proper bath. A proper fuck. None of this chaotic nightmare playacting.

“You also told me to make this hurt,” Aziraphale continued cautiously. “Is that what you need?”

_You control this._

_Now, hand control over to him._

“Yes…please.” 

“What if I make you come for me. As you always come for me.” Aziraphale sighed from above, shifting into a role. “Bit of a double entendre really. Come to my rescue. Show me what you can do for me.” The ropes, moving of their own miracled accord, dragged Crowley’s body forward through the water until his knees bumped the front of the bath, closing the gap between the aim of the spigot and the space between his legs. “Oh, you will come for me again and again.” He felt his knees pulled apart slowly and gently, his muscles drawn as tight as the ropes that spread him.

“You will come for me. Even when we cannot touch. Won’t you, my dear sweet serpent?”

“Yesssss.”

The angel turned one handle, and then the other, starting a slow trickle from the faucet. It fell with precise aim splashing against his clit, a barely-there sensation within the riot of responses radiating through his body. He squirmed beneath it.

The angel looked down at him with such a glowing expression he didn’t know how he’d cope. He was now stroking up and down his own stomach, playing his fingers in the silky patch of light-colored hair on his chest dreamily. Crowley let his head fall back.

“Fuuuuckkkkk,” he ground the word out and tried to track the orgasmic feeling in his groin. Such a seductive quarry, a moving target seeking to be struck. He made a wretched needy noise and tried to move, to chase it.

The angel turned the handles more, increasing the water pressure from a trickle to a stream. It poured between his quivering thighs, and his restricted hips bore down with frantic demand, trying to catch every drop. He needed this to savage him, needed the water to pound him until he couldn’t come any more. He needed it to give him a reprieve from the turbulence of his own mind. 

He started to reduce his awareness of all other external touch points and narrowed his focus to the water and to the angel who was rationing it out with aristocratic nonchalance.

“Good lord. Look at you. ‘Nymph.’”

The rain continued to patter down, droplets peppering his skin. They shimmered as they hit the surface, distracting him from his plight. In his distraction he realized the tub was filling more rapidly. His lower half would soon be underwater, and that caused a different pang of alarm. He couldn’t bear the thought of loosing that last thin stream of contact, that tenuous thread of connection which threatened to be swallowed up. He wanted more, wanted to feel the gush of the water, wanted to glorify the angel with his deeds before he sank out of sight.

“Ahhhhhhhhg yessss pleasssse please, angel!”

He hoisted his hips as best he could into the flow. He felt it rumble over him, the vibrations coursing down his thighs, making them tremble against the constraints. He felt the heat within him rising, felt the need coiling within him, begging, pleading for release. The angel looked on, benevolent.

“’In thy orisons, be all my sins remembered.’”

And then, mercilessly, he began to turn the taps in the opposite direction and slow the stream. The flow of water slacked to just a drizzle, and he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything at all. Crowley had deadened his pain to focus on his carnal need. His body was deprived of all sensory material save for the warm bathwater now almost up to his chin and the light spray of rain that seemed to spit in his face.

“Nooooooo," he rolled his neck back and forth, his hair floating in the ever-rising waters. "I need more. You need to help me. Please!”

“I will. You must be patient." And then he said the words that had sat dormant in his mouth for so long. Crowley had heard them though, with every wary glance, every shy blink, each impossible denial through their many years. "Wait for me.”

Crowley tried, but his body begged and struggled. He jerked his pelvis upwards, attempting to catch the subtle ripple from the spigot, but it was so slight. Without relief, he cried expletives in all the language he knew, listening to them echo unheeded off the walls. 

“Fuck, I can’t!” he howled. “I can’t do it!”

“I know you can. You will. You must.”

Crowley flailed against the ropes which held him in place. He struggled and wrenched his arms against them. Water washed over the sides in waves. A strike of pain grabbed him, streaking through his shoulder blade to wedge in his spine, and he embraced it. Just to feel something. It stabbed like a knife at the point where his wings were tucked, and he felt them bristle.

“Are you willing to endure this for me?”

Crowley clamped down, seethed through his teeth. This is what he wanted, what he asked for. The payoff would be worth it. 

He nodded, then hissed out, "for usss." 

The angel nodded back. He slid his strong soft hand over the spout, damming the flow completely.

“Ghhhhhhhgggg!” Crowley rose on bound knees, straining against his wire-tight bindings. With his shoulder joints pulled tight, his vertebrae flared with a white hot explosion of pain. In reaction (or retaliation), his wings crashed open into reality, cracking wet and straining against the bottom of the tub. 

“You waited so long. Oh you were so good, and you worked so hard.”

Crowley’s head began to hurt and he realized he had locked his jaw in concentration. He couldn't answer -- couldn't react. He had to hold himself still. Hold everything back. His arms felt as if they'd been ripped from their sockets. His wings were crushed and useless. He felt the throbbing between his legs, aching with the need of stimulation, but he couldn't assuage his desire. He couldn't even beg. He couldn't do anything. 

With careful precision, Aziraphale leaned down and said, “you may come now. I am sorry I made you suffer,” then he opened the taps full blast.

The water surged forth from the spigot. It cut through the bathwater like a gushing waterfall, and crashed against his engorged clit. He could not escape, felt himself pushed under with the force of it, water flowing into him. He let it. He gave in to it. As it coursed over him, his physical numbness to the world around him expanded to encompass the burning pain. He pulled away from it, refocusing the flames of his nerves to where the water hit him.

The exhilaration of his climax sent him over the edge.

Every vein in his body pulsed with it, each time more forceful than the last. His tense muscles shook, his back curved and his head fell back into submersion. He fell apart. The world went dark, then magnesium-white. He felt it rend him apart only to draw him together again, and again.

...and again. 

He rode the edge of inexhaustible ecstasy as long as he possibly could, time melting into the flowing hot water. He let his mind go. Let it all wash over him until it became too much. And it did become too much to bear. His physical form told him so. Deep waves of his orgasm rolled through him, up his body, down his limbs. They gathered in his chest, pressing against his heart and lungs which worked uselessly against the strain. He couldn’t pull himself from the stream. He was bound to it, laced together beneath it. All he could do was take it, until he couldn't take it any more. 

At that very moment, the water halted, and he felt his control returned. His lips moved, forming words that could not be heard. An acknowledgement. Gratitude. 

He kept himself suspended under the water, _floating floating_ , as he returned to his senses. He traced the last of his aftershocks as they rolled through him. Slowly his vision returned, and he looked up through the water. 

As if through a soft-focus lens he could see the angel stand, _floating floating_ , as if he weighed nothing whatsoever. He wore no heavenly vestments, but the way he moved emulated the flow of robes. He had not sheathed his pure white wings. They sagged at-ease from his shoulders, but the tips of his primary feathers twitched now and again like the tail of a drowsy cat. He was serene but alert. He was watching everything. 

Resettling himself on the raised tile surround at Crowley’s side, Aziraphale leaned in. His lips were parted, and he was breathing deeply, as if he himself had been through a physical trial. He did not touch him right away, and for that Crowley was grateful, feeling each nerve a livewire that could reignite on contact. His loving gaze was back though, eyebrows tilted in a penitent arch. At this range, Crowley could see the pulse in his neck hammering. He glided to the surface and let his face emerge, dripping and flushed with afterglow. He took a breath and willed his organs back to their duties.

“Kiss me,” he demanded.

Aziraphale did, his mouth barely open, tasting of purity. Crowley’s snake tongue darted in greedily. 

Aziraphale was there. Permission to touch granted, his so-soft, too-kind hands dipped into the water and rose to cradle his head, and Crowley let its full weight rest in the safety net of his palms.

“Check-in. Are you alright?”

“Ffffucking lovely,” Crowley said, floating there in his grasp. The bend of each wing breached the surface, black feathers swirling. “You?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Oh my love,” he said and kissed him again, so soft and light and good. He stayed there, hovering close to him. “I am. That was what you wanted?”

“Yeah. Thank you. Fucking perfect.”

“That was… rather a lot.”

“Yeah.”

“You are rather a lot.”

“Flatterer,” Crowley closed his eyes and mentally checked himself for the final scene. “Do you want to stop or go on?” 

He felt Aziraphale’s hand smooth his wet hair back. He felt the touch of the tip of his finger to the center of his forehead, and a stroke down to the snake tattoo at his temple.

“I want to go on.” 

Crowley opened his eyes; locked them with Aziraphale’s. Nodded.

The room grew darker.

Judgement was coming.

-

 _I don't want you to go to hell._

There was a noise through the air, like two sharp bits of metal sliding together. Aziraphale was gazing into the embers of Crowley’s eyes, focused fully on the demon to whom he had just given such pleasure. His hands were still wrapped around his head when he saw what was happening. The room was growing darker, but the water in the bath was as well.

There was a clap of thunder, and a bolt of not-quite-lighting. A dead-cold air settled over them like a drop in pressure before a miserable storm. 

The walls of the room changed to something Aziraphale was woefully familiar with. He could see it out of the corner of his eye. They were heaving as if undulating swarms of flies were trapped beneath the wallpaper. Occult symbols appeared, dripping crimson, the symbols themselves alive and writhing.

Aziraphale had seen it before. He had risen above it, ignored it, flown past as a warrior with flaming sword raised. But here it existed in his own home. In the heart of his beloved. He blinked.

“Watch me, angel. Stay with me.”

“I am. I will,” he choked, his voice coming with more strain than he wanted.

He opened himself up to it, opened himself to the darkness, to the way the air sank into the odor of mildew and antiseptic. The lights flickered too bright and too abnormally cold. With an inhalation he brought into himself all the sensations of loss and of despair. Of nothing. Of emptiness. 

“It’s alright,” he heard Crowley say. “You can call it off. We can come back to it.”

“No I mustn’t avoid this. It’s not going away.” Aziraphale took a few very human breaths, feeling them fill his belly, letting them out slower than he brought them in. “Does it… hurt?” 

“It hurts.”

“I… I….can’t….”

“Don’t. Don’t imagine it. Listen to me.” Crowley’s voice was strong even as a haze of puncture wounds spread across his fine face. Even as the rapidly-filling sanguine warmth in the tub seemed to both enfold him and pour forth from slashes that marred his exquisite throat. “It hurts. And it will always hurt, in a way. But not like it did. There is nothing to be done of the past. We can’t wash it away.” 

Aziraphale’s blinked again. His adoration and love for Crowley soared even as the disgrace he felt at all the fears he’d never faced – his fear of being found out, of disobeying heaven, his fear of losing Earth and all its splendors – dragged him back down. He was wracked with the horrible memories of hell, from the hopes they’d be able to save each other to the most recent journey, where Crowley had been held against his will and physically broken for God knew how long. That was what appeared before him now, submerged in iron-dark liquid. Horrors of a past he could do nothing to relieve. He felt tears well in his eyes, and he swiped at them with the back of his hand, smearing red across his cheek. “Dammit all, what is the point of crying at a time like this?”

“The point is to cry.” The ropes began to soak with blood. Crowley’s hands were mangled, he could see now, fingers missing, and he caught the brief glistening of snow-white bone. The metal on metal sound, like the fall of a guillotine, came again. “Believe me. I’ve asked myself what is the point of being hurt or angry about something when you could just… not? The point is to feel hurt and to feel angry.” The tub began to overflow onto the flooring, which had morphed into a gleaming white reflective surface. Blood pooled around its base, leeched under the edges. “Those things tell you stuff. Give you power. They’re bound to happen, so best you listen to them, when all you can do is listen, or else what’s the point?”

Aziraphale couldn’t stand it. He turned his head away and a sob caught in his throat.

“This wasn’t the death of me,” Crowly said. “It wasn't a loss. Not really. I’m still me.”

Aziraphale’s throat felt raw. The air was wrong. The light was wrong.

Of course it was wrong. It was hell. But that wasn’t all. It wasn’t just hell. The light and the cold white floor. That was the sterility of heaven. This manifestation was an assimilation of both. Both of their abominable places of employ melded into this one-room asylum. 

He turned back, fierce eyes meeting Crowley’s.

“This is an invitation.”

“What?”

“The bathtub and the rope. I didn’t connect it until now. You want me to ask, don’t you?”

Crowley, form all but lost in the russet-black gore that spilled out around him, strained to keep his head up. Aziraphale reached for him and the demon pulled away, sluicing blood over the edges.

“No angel, don't. It’ll stain you.”

“I am already sullied. You see my face. You see my hands. You know what I did. I belong there as much as you do.”

Crowley hissed, and it was a threatening sound. “Don’t ssssay that.”

The angel reached his hand across the expanse of red and let the side of it skim the surface like a seabird. “You said I still needed things in black and white, yet you limit your thoughts of what I should and should not do. It all could have been reversed.”

“Ssstop,” he said, and there was worry and fear and hope in that single syllable.

Aziraphale dropped his arm into the tub and churned the depths behind Crowley’s wings. “Angels don’t possess humans, and yet I did. Angels don’t go to hell, and yet I did.”

“SSSSHouldn’t go to hell! Of course we go to hell! That’s how you get demons.”

“Crowley.”

It was the first time he had used his proper name in the scene. It caught Crowley in exactly the way he meant it to. He jerked his head forcefully to shine wild yellow eyes at the angel. He was listening. 

“Please, let me be with you.”

“I don’t want you in here.”

He knew this was a negotiation. He knew what he wanted with devastating surety, but he also knew that he needed Crowley to agree, if it were to happen at all. He could not - would not - give even the suggestion that he would ever try to force this.

“May I touch you again?”

“Mm……..hrr..mmh… yeah.” Crowley shifted in a liquid that was slippery and more viscous than water. Aziraphale ran his fingers through damp feathers, combing them, wet and dripping, to fix them into order. The edges of his wings shuttered under his touch. He stroked up and over to end up at the back of his neck, resting his fingertips just there. He held him. 

“We came so close to losing each other,” Crowley said hoarsely.

“So close,” Aziraphale murmured, feeling it in the pit of his stomach.

“You could have ended up in the deepest pit for all eternity.”

“You could have been exposed as a fraud and destroyed.”

They sat in silent contemplation, Aziraphale running his hand tenderly across the skin of the demon’s neck and shoulders. He began working a quiet miracle as he did so, gently changing the contents of the tub.

Crowley raised and lowered himself slightly, agitating the liquid surrounding him.“Why is it so important to you?” 

“It’s not that it’s… so important. I want to do it.”

“Yeah, but why? Why would you want to feel this... this punishment? ”

“I….” Aziraphale was momentarily shocked. “Not me. It’s you.”

“What?”

“You. I want you to feel what it’s like in here. You always want to protect me. Keep me from harm. Keep me from being made the fool.” He stroked his hand over Crowley’s back, tracing how the ropes fell beside his wings, feeling the tension there. “I want you to have comfort. I want you to feel what it’s like to hold you. To be held by you. To be made love to as I feel it.” Crowley had gone motionless. “I want you to have all the pleasures.”

The interior of the room was cold and Aziraphale tried not to shiver. He watched Crowley intently and ached to heal his visible wounds. 

“Tell me what you want then, Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “Ask me.”

“I want to Play with Fyre. May we?”

Crowley wasn’t looking at him, but the weight of him rested against Aziraphale’s hand. His wounds had not abated, but the room grew infinitesimally warmer. He had seen him shiver then, or sensed it somehow.

“Alright.”

The invitation accepted and the negotiations made, Aziraphale slipped into the bath. He watched as first one leg, then the other disappeared. Slid arm under wing. Hand to heart. 

“Lie back. It’s alright.” 

“I don’t know… I don’t think I can...”

“Then just feel me.” He composed himself delicately around him, back to belly. His white wings remained outside, flexing over the back of the bathtub. “May I remove the bindings on your legs?”

“Huuuuh… uh, yeah.” 

Aziraphale snapped his fingers under the surface with a ripple, and the ropes that had tied Crowley to the front of the bath vanished. He let out a sound of shocked relief as his legs unfolded, and Aziraphale supported his full weight so that his shoulders could find some respite as well.

“Just lie here. Feel this. Can you feel the marks where the rope was? Feel the stress on your joints release. Savor this.” He ran his hands up and down the demon’s torso, finding his waist and pulling him into his lap. “There you are. Are you thinking of me? I’m right here. You are naked in my lap. Do you feel me?”

“Mmmmmm,” Crowley’s eyes were closed. He was now fully supported by Aziraphale’s strong body, his thick thighs, his solid grip. “I feel you. Feel your cock. Feels good.”

“That’s it Crowley, I am here for you, as you are for me. As you have always been for me. Let me take you this way. With you here.” Aziraphale reached down to take hold of his hips and to roll against him. Oh how these bodies wanted each other. “I will take you. Do you want that?”

“Mhhhhhhh.” Crowley rocked back and forth against the length laid in the divot of his ass. Now with his legs freed, although tired and strained, he fought to find leverage on the glazed surface to press into him. “Yes, I want that. Want you.”

Aziraphale, for his part, slid a hand down to position himself. He stroked over his shaft, measuring its weight in the lightness of suspension, feeling it bob against the cool, smooth, ruby-red fluid that enveloped them. His heart beat madly at the thought of what he wanted, what he could give. He rested the tip of his cock at his tight puckered entrance. “Like this? Just here?”

“Jussst there.” Crowley leaned back. “Fuck me, fuck into me.”

He pressed gently, an easing touch. A test. The demon would have none of it. He tightened his shoulders with new found strength that shocked and invigorated Aziraphale, and it pulled him back. “Oh, you want me.”

“Fuck yeah I want you. I want all of you. Every bit of you. Fuck. I love you.”

Aziraphale slid his hands to settle on the divots of his demon’s narrow hips and hauled him back, sinking into him with measured slowness and miracled lube. Crowley was open and willing. The angel felt the closeness, the closure around him. He let out a quiet exultation.

“Oh yesss,” Crowley said, “Oh fuck. Oh fuuuck yes.”

It was so good. Aziraphale leaned in, forehead to shoulder, holding him while they panted, heavy with craving and an overwhelming sense of rightfulness. This was it. This was how it was meant to be.

Aziraphale moved into him, letting his body arch and meet its need. Every piece of him hummed. His wings fell against the tile surround, giving him leverage to push deeper. Half floating, he plunged into him and set a metered rhythm. Crowley gulped and gave in, letting go of all resistance. His jaw went slack, and noises of approval emptied from his throat and into the room as he raised and lowered on the angel’s strong thrusts. 

The walls of the room changed again, the atrocity of hell being swept away by an unfurled bounty of flora. Grapevines tumbled down like loose braids. Verdant ivy and delicate blossoms anointed the eye with their beauty. Ferns sprung to cover the cold businesslike sheen of heaven, all cool and fresh and wet. The liquid around them gave off the aroma of flowers and fruit, a bouquet of raspberries and vanilla and rose. 

They both inhaled together, a summer night, the sanctity and splendor. Aziraphale let his movements slow to a meditative pulse, a steady wave. He moved into him with barely-there force and Crowley rode it with him. 

“Tell me green, darling.”

Crowley stretched his lacerated neck, resting his head back with tremulous surrender. “Green, love.” 

They fell between worlds. Fell into each other, as if free-falling in opposite directions off infinite cliffs. They fell like they forgot to land.

Aziraphale no longer had to imagine or not imagine. Crowley was very thorough, and the ropes were very strong. And they were tight around him, at his wrists yes, but across the fine rib cage and over the gnarled angles and quarries of his back. They burned. His hands decidedly burned. The network of lines on his legs burned. His shoulders and his back and his neck burned. But none of them acutely. Not this time.

Aziraphale settled into place. He felt Crowley in him, so tentative and so gentle, but so needy. So hungry. 

“Take me,” he said in Crowley’s voice. And taken he was. 

Crowley bit down at the point where his face met his shoulder, sucking, licking, leaving marks, humming into his skin. He curled in, shaking, rising and falling like a wide and powerful ocean. He fucked him deeply, longingly, desperate to slake his need. 

“Ohhhhh, oooh, mmmmm.” Aziraphale heard him moan and smiled in recognition. Goodness, he could be a noisy one, couldn’t he? 

It was mad. It was wonderful. Aziraphale’s mind grew dim with pleasure in pain, with play and with passion. He lay back and let Crowley have his fill, even as his movements became more frantic, thrashing in the burgundy waters. It wouldn’t be long before it would all be over, and he wasn’t sure when or if they would be here again, and so he concentrated on appreciating every millisecond without judge. Crowley pistoned into him, crashing towards his crescendo, alabaster wingtips stretched and pointed high into the air. 

“Oh, oh, oh, you feel. You feel. Oh yes,” Crowley’s words rung out, confused and enraptured. “Oh, I love you. I love you! Oh, FUCK!” 

He came like a rush of starlight.

Aziraphale felt it all; all the sensations smashed together into one great ode. Felt where Crowley’s clung, felt leg to leg and the quaking of loins, felt girth and length, felt every muscle laced against the network of ropes. His own face cowered at his shoulder, weeping. 

Aziraphale took one final shuttering inhalation from within this strong-edged, bird-boned, fire and ash body.

“Release me,” he breathed. 

Crowley, in an angel’s body, with his own demonic shell sheltering Aziraphale in his arms, snapped a miracle and incinerated the remaining ropes. Like two dazed drunkards trying to hold each other up, they spun through some subtle and secret dimension and both fell back into their own bodies. 

“Red,” Crowley gasped.

The glamour melted from the walls of the room. The floor was just a wooden floor. The air was the same salt-licked summer air that wafted through houses up and down the coast. It became once again just an ordinary bathroom, with an extraordinary tub that currently held two supernatural entities entwined in each other's arms. 

“Hold me.” Crowley’s whole body was a dead weight against his chest, his voice a bare whisper. His arms drifted uselessly at his sides, head thrown back and wings vanished. “Let me know it’s you.”

Aziraphale, eyes brimming, wrapped him in a solid hug. He rested his head down against Crowley’s neck, made gloriously well again, and sighed with only a slight hitch to his breath. Crowley reached up to touch his cheek, all digits restored and human-looking. He’d even miracled a new layer of black gleaming polish to his nails, a detail which made Aziraphale cry and laugh all at once. He kissed his thumb before the demon dropped his arm, limp as a wet noodle, back into the basin with a small splash.

“Are we swimming in Bordeaux? Now I know you’re a romantic.”

“We are,” Aziraphale hiccoughed, “the most foolish creatures.”

“Not very hygienic.” Crowley shook his head weakly, then drew focus back to Aziraphale’s face in the crook of his neck. With so much care it almost broke his heart to hear it, Crowley teased, “hey, got something in your eye there, angel?” Aziraphale just held him tighter, the cobblestone muscles of his arms tense, pulling him back against his soft middle. “Are you ok?”

“Oh, Crowley.”

Crowley tried to slide away, but strong arms forbid it. “S’alright. It’s all ok,” he said. “I’m a little wiped out but I’m good. You good? What do you need? Right now?”

“That was… that was….”

“We need to get out of this blasted tub,” he said and waited for a response. Aziraphale looked up at him, and Crowley raised a hand and made as if to snap. “May I?”

He nodded, and Crowley whisked them away to the bedroom where they landed ever so softly in a boneless heap on the mattress. They were clean and dry, both clothed in their summer sleepwear.

He groaned. “I’m on a magic detox after this one.” 

Aziraphale finally asked. “You’re really alright?”

Crowley smiled. It was a real, genuine, lovely, wonderful, calm, relaxed, honest-to-goodness, full-faced demonic smile, and Aziraphale thought he’d die to see it. “I am so good. I’d say you can’t even believe it, but if anybody could, it’d be you. You did everything. You did everything right. God you were good. Thank you. Thank you for all of that.”

Aziraphale felt his heart swell at the praise, felt it stitch up some pieces of him that were in danger of falling apart. He’d carefully work through categorizing his thoughts and his emotions later, possibly with a notebook close by, but for now, he absorbed every word served up to him and could do nothing more.

“Of course,” he managed. Then, “you’re welcome.”

Crowley’s eyes peered into him. Slight fingers crawled over to stroke the very edge of his linen sleep shorts. “Was it too much? Can I do anything to help? What do you need?” he repeated.

Aziraphale took a breath. “I tried not to have too many preconceived notions, but of course, one does. Therefore, I would have to say it was… more than I thought it would be. And I’m sure there is more still.” Crowley tightened his lips in subtle agreement. Aziraphale adjusted himself, propping himself up on the mountain of pillows and stroking through Crowley’s auburn locks. He was growing them out, he was reticent to mention. “I never want to let go of you.”

“Like it. Good plan. Go with that.” Crowley wriggled up more into his grasp and Aziraphale grinned an easy grin. He petted Crowley’s hair, and they sat there in the bedroom readjusting to the comfort and the quiet. 

At a certain point, the cats wandered in, and Aziraphale giggled as Fluffy jumped up onto the bed only to be shooed off immediately by a perturbed demon. 

“OI! No cats in the bedroom after transcendent sex!”

They watched with amusement as Imp prowled around the open window before skulking back out the door, appearing content with whatever feline-reconnaissance mission he’d been on.

“All sex with you is transcendent,” Aziraphale said after Crowley shut them out and crept back onto the bed. “I might call what we did more abstruse.”

“Call you abstruse, whatever the heaven that means.” He wound his way forward and back over Aziraphale’s body, just touching and connecting at spots, sliding and nuzzling and definitely, Aziraphale decided, not snuggling. 

“Do you think it’s still Muldavian Flag Day?” mused Aziraphale.

“Dunno. Shut up. There’s some juice on the side table if you’d like.”

Aziraphale glanced over to see a glass that had not been there a moment before. He reached for it and took a sip. It was fresh squeezed. So much for a miracle hiatus.

“I noticed you didn’t blaspheme,” Aziraphale said faintly, setting the glass back down.

“Eh. Fuck God. Didn’t deserve to be there. Not by my invite anyways.”

Aziraphale followed Crowley’s lead and cuddled down next to him. They touched at ankle, at leg, at hip, and in arms, the two of them facing each other. Aziraphale let his bare foot move up and down along Crowley’s lower leg. “Next time, I want to undo your bindings by hand. If I may.”

“Next time he says.”

“I mean, I mean…”

“Ssshhhh it’s alright,” Crowley reached out and stroked his face, his cheek, the shell of his ear. “So you liked it well enough for a next time then, eh?”

“Oh Crowley, I can’t even begin to tell you. Give me…” he paused. Took a shuddering breath. “Oh dear lord.”

“Not a problem.” Crowley slow-blinked and smiled a serpentine smile. “Sorry I’m so greedy to know, but if it was ok enough for you to anticipate a next time, it’s enough for me, yes?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered, edging closer and burrowing his face into the demon’s chest. 

“There’ll be loads of next times, I promise you.” He hugged him, saying the things Aziraphale wanted to hear, stroking his hair with deft hands. “I want to see what other pretty rope tricks you have up your sleeve. But first there’s me wanting to take a bath like a normal person. And before that, a nap. And before that...”

With a slim finger, he tilted Aziraphale’s chin up. When he spoke, his voice was like crystal.

“Aziraphale. Even if I were ever to have to leave you. Even if ever I were to forget you. Even if ever we could not be together, know. You MUST know, somewhere. I am loving you. No matter what.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and he felt the flash as clear as anything he had ever felt. The feeling of being absolutely and unconditionally cherished. His entire being wanted it - pulled towards it like those things moths were pulled towards. He desired it like he desired the sweetest pudding at the end of the most lavish* banquet.

“Just want you to know that” he said quietly. Shrugged. “Told you I could feel love. Just wasn’t allowed to show it. So. One more bit of … ”

“Show me now.” 

And he did, without a second thought. And it was so bright. Pure. Shooting like arrows. Like fangs. Aziraphale let the light impale him and relished the pierce. He cried out, not in pain, but in bliss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _  
> ** intransitive verb  
>  to lose vigor, health, or flesh (as through grief) : LANGUISH  
> to yearn intensely and persistently especially for something unattainable_
> 
> _* adjective. sumptuously rich, elaborate, or luxurious. From late Middle English (denoting profusion): from Old French lavasse ‘a deluge of rain’._


	8. Two Types of Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale was staring at a pile of shelled peas, desperately looking for an answer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT NOTE: The "Anxiety Attack" tag has been added for this chapter. Thank you [Aethelflaed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed) for reading that section over for me. Please check out her story [In Control](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25848418) for more on this very topic. 
> 
> Thank you to again my partners in the the [Good Omens MiniBang](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/diws_mini_bang): [Tarek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies/pseuds/Tarek_giverofcookies) for all the cookies and screaming when I needed it most, and [Katartstrophe](https://twitter.com/katartstrophe) for the unending support, cheerleading, and inspiring art! 
> 
> And to my readers and commenters, subscribers and kudos-givers; you mean the absolute world to me. Thank you for hanging in there. Believe it or not, this was supposed to be a _short_ chapter; a sort of denouement where they visit the sea. (NOTE: And, ok, I wrote that too! [Click here to read](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26243512).) Seems like I forgot that this story is about _both_ of them "processing passed traumas and future fears," and the angel made sure to remind me of that. Happy ending assured!! We have one more ride (at least for now)!  
> (P.S. a braver soul than I would have titled this chapter "[Us soup](https://www.reddit.com/r/KingOfTheHill/comments/3dbuso/i_told_him_we_made_a_big_bowl_of_cream_of_us/)")  
> ((P.S.S. In case you couldn't tell - and maybe I should have revealed this earlier - one of my major turn-ons with Good Omens is the way it flips genre / genders / and tone on its head (aka: dancing disco demons in the same show that gives us the Bandstand scene). I cannot say if I am a strong enough writer yet to fully embrace and honor this idea, but fuckit, I damn well tried!))

Aziraphale was staring at a pile of shelled peas, desperately looking for an answer. 

It wasn’t that he expected to find one there, not really. He’d been struck once again to a state of near immobility by a combination of beauty and amazement; of chance and luck and consequence that brought 6,000-plus years of Earth’s existence to manifest in this small, insignificant pile of produce. So many things had to align to get them to this spot. What could have changed, over the course of that time, to have provided a different outcome? 

His heart did a record-skip. What indeed. 

He was seated at the double-wide butcher block island, a recent addition to the kitchen, on one of a set of plush grey stools, contemplating the fresh peas. They sat, all tender and vulnerable, in a little green pyramid on the black walnut prep surface. They’d been carefully shucked, between genial rambling conversations and sips of tea, and set aside to await their fate. The pods had been bruised, left to infuse with other savory foodstuffs, and were now coming to a boil, transforming into vegetable stock on one of the burners of the high-end range. It made the kitchen feel like a kitchen should. Homey. It smelled of butter and savory warm things. The peas had come in from the garden, where even now, Crowley had popped off to snip a bit of mint for the recipe, leaving Aziraphale in charge.

Our kitchen. Our garden. Our side.

Aziraphale tasted each word, each syllable, rolling them around in his mouth. They felt good, smooth; he’d gotten used to the taste of them, but he recalled with chagrin a time when they had been bitter. And later, sour. Off. Not quite right; not quite ready. He thought back with disdain and knew it was because he’d been forced to confront them without feeling prepared. They were an acquired taste really. It had taken time and practice to realize the nuances, to be less shocked and more attentive. 

Because it _was_ different now. He’d said that countless times, to himself as well as to Crowley. It seemed silly to have to keep saying it. But if he didn’t, he found it hard not to default back to old habits of judgement and division. Different wasn’t always a bad thing, was it? 

An image of Crowley blinked like a cinematic clip before his eyes, the demon flitting back and forth between the stove and the fridge, guffawing at some meaningless thing and brandishing a knife so sharp it seemed to rend the air as he twirled it deftly between his nimble fingers.

No. Definitely not always bad. 

His mind then trailed into the territory they planned on discussing that evening, and even with all his big talk and self-assurances, he was still on edge about the whole thing. His heart beat quicker as he thought of the conversation they planned to have with this special meal. It was going to mean another change he felt the instigator of, that he had been preparing (but wasn’t quite ready) for. 

He knit his brow and blinked rapidly at the peas. 

The peas, of course, said nothing.

They (the angel and the demon, not the peas) had tried a few times, in fits and starts, to discuss the conundrum at hand, with limited success. Aziraphale would have continued to try, as he had with other important topics, if time had not become a factor. But now, like the end of an 11-year stint raising a precocious (if one were to be generous) supposed-antichrist child, they had reached the hour of reckoning: 

The rent had come due. 

The need for discussion imminent, Crowley suggested that perhaps it would put both their minds at ease to have a really nice meal, and a few drinks, and settle in with the cottage lease paperwork to try to figure things out. Aziraphale agreed; on the one hand, having a date scheduled gave him comfort. On the other, it also gave him ample time to dread the evening. 

How were they going to pay? How were they to deliver payment to their landlord Asphodel, the Third Representative of Earth and Guardian of Limbo? The contract, hastily constructed under pressure, contained wording that was unclear at best, and the inability to fulfill the details would leave them without the protection they had so far enjoyed. Aziraphale had insisted on eating at home while they had that discussion. The thought of dining out with the issue hanging like the sword of Damocles over their heads, well. He was afraid it might make him lose his appetite. Crowley readily agreed. 

Come to think of it, where was Crowley? It couldn’t take that long to get the mint. Aziraphale pulled himself away from his pea meditation and looked down to his fingers, splayed as they were over the page holding open a recipe in _The Ritz London: The Cookbook_. The confounded perfectionist wasn’t searching for the wild garlic, was he? Dash it all, they had discussed that and decided to use the alternative. He slid his hand away from the book, slipped off his stool, and walked to the window. Peeping out, he saw nothing of Crowley’s tall dark form. Aziraphale sighed and padded to the front door. He slipped on his shoes, bending to lace them up, and called to the cat as he did so. It was an automatic response now, whenever they left the confines of the cottage, to make sure the cats followed. Fluffy trotted obediently up behind, bumping cheek against calf, and they both took their egress.

The sky was overcast, the air heavy with the threat of rain. They had planned to take a long walk down the path of Devil’s Dyke earlier to do a bit of foraging, or possibly a ramble to the seaside to see what flotsam might have washed ashore, but seeing as how the weather defied cooperation, they’d stayed closer to home. Aziraphale scanned the front, taking in the well-maintained eclectic collection of flowers and plants. Crowley really had, over time, whipped the chaotic maelstrom of bushes, bulbs, and vines into shape. Of course he had, but the effect in the end really was truly stunning. Noting the absence of any outward sign of demonic presence, he headed down the path to the back. 

“Crowley?” he called, as Fluffy disappeared into the underbrush. Aziraphale scanned the expanse of the back garden, looking out over the space that extended farther back than it logically should have. He saw the trellises and bean poles where their vegetable patch thrived in the open sunny spot. No demon amongst the green tomatoes and the burgeoning chives. He looked at the apple trees that were just beginning to show their fruit. Not by the mint patch. Nothing by the herbs. 

He put his hand to his heart as he felt something stabbing there. Twisting. What if… what if….? Quiet. No. It’s nothing, he scolded. You are being a silly old angel. He’s here somewhere – just stop worrying. 

“Crowley?” he called again, a bit louder. 

He could feel his pulse begin to pound uncomfortably in his neck, but he didn’t have the where-withal to address it at the moment. His vision began to narrow, following a logical path that did little to assuage his nerves. He drew his hands together and wrung them, quickly walking to the left and peering back into the house. Were they ships passing in the night? Had Crowley gone back into the kitchen? No of course not. He would have heard. He glanced to the collection of beech and oak trees, to the area that darkened into a grove of chilly shadows. A fearful thought wormed its way into his head, foreboding and hollow. A thought that felt like the end of something. _Even if ever._ He felt in a fog, in a haze.

Where in the name of Adam was he?

He spun in place, looked around their empty garden, to the bench, the patio table, the winding stone wall. He was alone. 

He should… do something. He looked up into the gloomy sky at the drifting grey clouds for the thing he always used to fill that hole in the past. Blind faith. Play it safe. Avoid failing. Practice and plan long enough and… and…

And nothing. That bridge was well-burned and washed away. Purposefully so. He felt untethered in a way he hadn’t before. Looking up into the grey, indifferent clouds, he felt nothing. He hugged himself. It did not help.

“Crowley!” he yelled, and his voice cracked. 

“Over here!” came a call, and the relief staggered him.

His body was unsteady, muscles he hadn’t even realized were tense relaxing in a jumbled mess. His heart still raced, chest and throat tight, and he felt like he might collapse. Remember to breathe, he admonished himself. For heaven’s sake, calm down! 

He tried to set his corporation back to rights. Although his heart reset to the optimum rate, and the levels of his humors returned to their proper equilibrium, he grimaced. He wanted to apologize to the formation he inhabited, for whereas he may have set his body back to factory install, he was still painfully aware that a seeping sort of anxiety would return, coming from deep within himself, and he dreaded it. It didn’t used to be like that. Perhaps it was the way the antichrist had reconstructed his body. Perhaps it was because nothing seemed to work like it used to anymore.

“Azirapahle! Come look at this.”

He found his footing again. Pulled himself together, in the way he always did. He stomped into the grove.

“What in God’s name are you doing!” 

“C’mere.” The demon’s voice was oddly quiet. “Watch your step. I want to show you something.”

He picked his way through the shadowed area, the temperature around him noticeably dropping beneath the tall shady trees. When he found him, Crowley was crunched up under a beech tree, sleeves rolled up, forearms and fingertips smudged with mud. He felt an immediate shoring of his emotional state at seeing him there, holding a bundle of mint in one hand, and his cellular in the other. 

He was staring down at a collection of small, slender spires that shot up from the ground, the actual identity of which Azirapahle could not fathom. They looked like something to revel the Cottingley fairy photographs: a bit eerie, a bit intangible. Like mycelium masquerading as flowers. Their color was a very odd combination of white-yellow and lavender. He couldn’t look away.

“What are they?”

“ _Epipogium aphyllum_ ,” Crowley said, his voice sounding far away. “Ghost orchids.” He looked up at him, his eyes unshielded. Aziraphalae wasn’t sure what he was to do with any of this knowledge, but it felt sacred. He crouched down next to him. 

“They’re rare, very rare,” Crowley said, shifting his gaze back to the forest floor. “Especially now. Especially here.” He brought his phone up and snapped a photo of the leafless flowers. “They grow in the dark, so no chlorophyll. Stays underground for years, and when they do pop up, you might never see them again. There’s er, sort of a recipe that’s very exacting for what they need. The trees form a relationship with certain things in the soil, and that in turn talks to the plant.” He looked around, seeming to be lecturing more to himself. “Needs the rest of the area to be right for them. Like. Everything has to be right.”

“Is this something you had a hand in?” Azirapahle asked.

“No,” he shook his head, his face contorting. “I’d never do that, not even to a plant. That’s a lot just to exist.” He relaxed again and asked, “have you ever seen one? Even way back when?”

“I can’t say that I have, though I don’t recall paying that much attention to botanicals. I think I would have remembered that that color; yellow and violet seem to be on opposite ends of the spectrum.” 

Aziraphale was not looking at the plants. His heart was in his throat for this wild, wonderous demon. A being who had come through so much. To think that he who touched stars could find awe in the makeup of this mundane planet. He felt he had no right to be here, to witness this. “It’s very striking. Well named. Very ghostly.” 

Crowley rocked on his heels, his shoes making a crunching noise against the damp leaf litter. He tucked his cell back into his jacket pocket and left his hand there. “I was going to come in to get you, but I, sort of got lost thinking.” 

“What about?”

Crowley glanced off into the distance, towards the darkness. “I was wondering. Maybe we want to go for a drive later. After dinner or some such?”

“Oh?” Aziraphale said, rolling with the suggestion. “Anywhere in particular?”

“Naw. Just, since the weather’s shit, possibly you might feel like riding with me as I aimlessly careen down the coast.” 

Aziraphale pulled a face. “Doesn’t that sound tempting.”

“Hmmm. I can promise you your favorite effluvium.”

“Now you’re not going to let me live that down are you?”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth quirked. “I don’t disagree mind you. I did want to ask you something, and I know you like chatting in the Bentley.”

“We can chat anywhere. As long as you are alright with it.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the thing. If I focus on it too much it will…erm. It’s.”

He looked back to the orchids. 

“What are you thinking?”

“Oh you know…. demonic stuff. Blasphemous stuff.”

“Like what?”

“End of the worlds. Stuff.”

“Oh.”

“Not… not like that. But like, endings I guess. In general.”

Aziraphale felt a chill. “How very odd. I was just having thoughts like that as well.”

Crowley turned back to him. “You were?”

“Yes. Only instead of rare orchids I was looking at the peas you had for the…” He blanched suddenly, feeling a cold sweat wash over him. “Oh my dear, I forgot. Crowley, I forgot!” He grasped Crowley’s shoulder for leverage and hoisted himself upright. 

“Wha..?” Crowley asked, but Aziraphale was already dashing back towards the cottage. He stumbled up the stairs to the back door and rushed inside.

He could smell smoke. Dimly he heard Crowley yelling from behind him, but he plunged forward into the kitchen. A thick black cloud covered the ceiling. Something was burning and crackling on the stove. Yellow-orange flames leapt upwards. He ran forward and grabbed the mostly-empty saucepan with the edge of his shirttail. The contents that hadn’t boiled over were blackened carbon, and he felt the metal handle burn through the fabric and into his skin. 

“Aziraphale, don’t!” Crowley was behind him and snapped his fingers, smothering the fire instantly. Aziraphale dropped the pot with a clatter to the floor. “What in blazes do you think you’re doing!”

He was shaking. His hand was burned, and he shook it, healing it with barely a thought. He stared at the stove, at the burners caked with the incinerated remains of peapods and whatever else had been in the pot. Acrid smoke still wreathed the room as Crowley’s hand shot forward and hit the button to turn on the hood vent.

“Aziraphale. What is going on?”

Crowley certainly was saying his name a lot. His eyes were still trained on the stove, but he wasn’t really seeing it. He was still seeing an image of flames. He rubbed his healed hand.

“Ha, well. You see, I was just over there,” he pointed, and his arm felt like lead. “I noticed you’d been gone for quite some time, and I started to worry.” He wanted to laugh about it. He wanted ever so badly to laugh at his mistake. Make light. Just a careless, silly mistake. “I didn’t mean to almost burn the house down. I, I simply…” And he felt the tremors rushing through him. “Oh, did I? I almost burned it down. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t.” 

What idiot burns soup? It’s all my fault. I’m to blame. He couldn’t speak any further, his throat had gone dry. And he couldn’t stop trembling.

He felt the tears before he knew they were there.

His snake, bless (or curse) his soul enveloped him immediately, folding his arms around him and cradling the back of his head. Crowley hushed little kisses into his cheek and chanted his name. “Aziraphale, Aziraphale, it’s ok.” He pulled away and scanned his face. “We’ll make more soup. Or I’ll order some. Someone can bring us more soup. It’s fine. No problem.”

“I… I…” choked the angel. Yes, miracle up some more soup, jolly good! The thought of it turned his stomach. He felt ill. He realized that, terrifyingly, his knees were not performing as they should, and there was nothing he could do about it. He started to sink. Oh, this was miserable. This was useless. He was useless. Crowley must have felt his weakness, felt him shivering, and guided him to a stool to have him sit down. 

“You’re alright. You’re ok. It’s ok.”

“It’s not.” Why did his voice sound like that? So small and tight. Like someone was strangling him. Why did his stomach feel like this? Like someone had scooped out his insides. He tilted his head back and shook it. “I… I haven’t been at all honest with you. Or myself. I’ve lied to myself again and…everything I said. I’m not worthy of you.” He crumpled his face into his sweat-dampened hands. “All the brave things I say are lies.”

Crowley crushed himself against him and he tried to find comfort amidst the corners and the angles and the points of him, but his teeth chattered and he couldn’t stop the shaking. He heard Crowley’s unnecessary heartbeat and felt it thump against his cheek, and it only made him wish to cry harder. 

“I.. put on a brave face,” he burbled on into the demon’s chest. “I convinced myself, but just now, I was outside and, and the peas… I felt nothing. Nothing! Don’t you understand? I…don’t want…” His words were broken with a sob.

“No..no…no..” Crowley was repeating like a mantra, shaking his head. “You’re not going to. You didn’t.”

“I am,” Aziraphale gasped, wanting so hard not to say it, “so afraid of…” He forced himself to look up into Crowley’s agonized, pleading eyes. Of doing the wrong thing, he thought, his mind a jumble. Of losing you. Of losing everything. Layer upon layer of his fears fought to be named until he was lost in the crush of them. And from that heap of emotion, his longest inbuilt fear, the most senseless, hidden, forgotten, terrorizing, deplorable one emerged. The one he said he didn’t care about. The one he said didn’t bother him. Oh God. He said it outloud with a faltering voice: “...of falling.”

The room around them spun and deformed. Aziraphale felt all the weight of their little world perched on his shoulders, like Sisyphus’ stone. 

Crowley tried his best. He had his arms around him, almost too tight, as sobs wracked through Aziraphale’s body. It was horrible. There was no way to help it. To comfort each other would be just another lie. He didn’t deserve it.

“I didn’t know,” Crowley said wetly, “I didn’t know you were so scared.”

“You couldn’t know,” he sobbed, “I didn’t let you! I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be a bad angel. I want to be me. I do.”

The stove vent hummed quietly, purging the air of the remnants of burnt soup. The sound filled his ears, all static and noise. Maybe he would be taken away by it. Sucked up like the smoke and blown piece by piece away into the ether. He thought of Crowley standing there as he evaporated from his grasp, slipping through his fingers like mist. If ever I were to have to leave you. Even if ever.

They clung to each other in the cottage kitchen, and he felt almost that he was gazing down at the two of them, so huddled and so small. Aziraphale had never in all his life cried like this. It was like being destroyed. He had been discorporated, and this was worse. That at least had been over in a second. They stayed like that for a long time, for ages. Aziraphale began to feel tired and droopy. Wrung out. His throat hurt. He didn’t think he had anything left in him to cry, his eyes felt swollen and gritty. Crowley still hugged him, leaning against him as if trying to shelter him from an indefensible attack. And Aziraphale knew he would do just that. Would stand against Satan to protect the world with nothing more than a tire iron. Would try to protect him against God with little more than his loving embrace.

“Hey,” Crowley whispered after what felt like an eon. “Come on now. Look, you’re upsetting the cats.”

Aziraphale, his brain muzzy, pried his eyes open to see Imp and Fluffy, both on the counter where they were most assuredly not allowed, pacing back and forth. Crowley turned to them, and they leapt off to come and weave in and out of their legs, purring loudly. 

“Oh Crowley, I feel like such a wretch.” Aziraphale peeled himself away and rubbed his eyes. Absently he noticed something and reached for Crowley’s hand. He still clutched the bouquet of mint. 

Crowley set it aside and put both hands to Aziraphale’s hot, tear-streaked face and kissed him. He kissed his slack mouth and his soft wet cheeks. Crowley felt so good and so wonderful and so undeserved. He stroked Aziraphale’s shoulders and his arms, back and forth, then laid a steadying hand to his knee. He left his hand there as he turned his body to reach the kitchen sink without losing contact. Poured a glass of water. Chuckled self-effacingly at himself and mumbled something about not just miracling one up, and drank it. Refilled the glass and handed it to Aziraphale. “Drink some.”

Aziraphale took a sip. Although he didn’t really taste it, it was good to be able to do as he was told.

Crowley ran the corner of a dish towel under the faucet. He stepped back and waited. Waited until Aziraphale put down the glass, and then he reached up with damp fingers and stroked his hair back from his temples. Pressed a corner of the wet towel there, just there. The cool green scent of crushed fresh mint hit him. Clung to him. Soothed him ever so slightly. Crowley let him have the towel when Aziraphale reached for it, giving him time to hold the coolness to his eyes. To sigh and look away.

“How do you know what to do. How do you seem to always know what to do?”

Crowley shrugged, leaving both delicate hands to rest on Aziraphale’s knees. “Humans. Learn stuff like that from them.”

Aziraphale nodded. “They are good at that. I supposed they must be.”

After a moment's pause, Crowley nodded at him. “You’re safe, you know. You’re you. Don’t listen to those voices.” He bit his lip. “Has this happened before?”

Aziraphale took another drink of water and set the glass aside. “I guess the fears have been there for a long while.” He inhaled. Took a deep breath and let it out. He felt... not great, but better. “I believe,” he said, more firmly, “that was my first breakdown.”

Crowley coughed a little and finally broke contact. He let go of him and leaned back against the countertop. “First? Lucky you.” He bounced a bit, looking around like he needed a distraction. “You don’t have to change anything, damn it all. Ngk, er, aw hell. Fuck! Sorry!” He growled at the ceiling, and Aziraphale watched his neck arch, his chin point, his shoulders, all of him, struggle. He couldn’t help but smile just a little bit. “That’s the thing about feelings. That’s why it feels so much safer to avoid them. Sometimes they lie.”

“I know.”

“Look. You already did so fucking much. Let me take care of it this time? Just, let me take care of you. Of us. Please. Let me do that, ok?” His nervous, needy energy was spilling over. “We could just, go have a little lie down. Might be a wise idea. Can talk about all the other stuff later.”

Aziraphale took stock of his situation. He could let Crowley take control. He didn’t have to make every decision a snap decision. Different wasn’t always bad, but different just for the sake of it wasn’t always the best course either. He could just, delay it. Give him more time to think. No. That wasn’t it. He could accept the help Crowley had offered, and he didn’t have to fight it. Didn’t have to lay out a plan or come up with excuses as to who-owed-who. He could just say it. 

“Yes.” He said out loud. “Why don’t you get this one? That would be… well it would be lovely.”

“Consider it done, angel.” And then there was a wretched gulp. Eyes that begged of him. An adamant question. “Do you like it when I call you that?”

Aziraphale felt his face soften. He stood unsteadily from the stool, his legs a bit wobbly and his stomach still jittery. He rested their foreheads together. “I do. I always have.”

“You are. Forever and ever.” Crowley said in a voice like dark chocolate ganache. “My angel.” 

“My sweet demon.”

Crowley squeezed him, then shifted back, shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, then removed them, seeming not to decide where they should go. He tried flopping them uselessly into his jacket pockets. His next words were dreadfully sincere. 

“When I showed you what happened to me, that was the first time I could ever share that. With anyone. But if that scared you…”

“It’s not that,” Aziraphale said gently. Coming back into his own head, he realized the folly of his fear. “Oh, my dear. This is something that has been with me for my entire existence. I actually did such a good job burying it, I had no idea it still bothered me at all. This has nothing to do with you,” he implored. “That day was, it was one of the most precious days to me. All of it. And I feel, sometimes, that I don’t deserve you. I feel… guilty.”

“Don’t feel guilty on my account. Definitely not worth it.”

“I do,” he demurred. “And I apologize for just now. I was being, to put it in a word, ridiculous.” 

“You are not. Don’t say that!” He grasped Aziraphale’s upper arms almost as if he wanted to shake him. “This is all. This is all, you know. Not easy. I.. I want to help you.” Crowley said, and pulled him roughly back into an embrace. He whispered into the curve of his neck, “I do. I just don’t know how.”

“Oh darling, we’ll figure this all out somehow,” Azirapahle sniffed. He wasn’t sure what he needed. But he knew there were still things he had to face, and somehow, some way, they would find a way through it together. “There is, actually one thing you could do for me right now.” 

“Anything.”

“Could you please shut that bloody exhaust fan off?”

Crowley kissed his neck, and the hood vent silenced. He touched his tongue to the soft skin covering his collarbone, and the pot on the floor miraculously replaced itself on the stove. He licked small gentle laps, like a kitten at warm milk, all wet and innocent, up Aziraphale’s neck. With each taste of him, a particle of the mess on the stove reset itself. He reached his chin, letting his lips ride the edge of his jaw as if tracing all the outline of his silhouette in portrait.

Aziraphale felt held, embraced, supported. He felt dizzy in the heady, white-out way he had the first night in the back garden, after spiraling towards the Earth at breakneck speed, held tight in Crowley’s arms. When he had held his wings back and had let Crowley catch him.

I want you like no other, he thought. 

Crowley’s fingers found the edge of Aziraphale’s shirt. “Want I should fix this?” he muttered, toying with the burn bit. It crumbled as he did so. 

“No,” Aziraphale said, looking down. “I think I should take the time to change. Slip into something more comfortable. Then, possibly, we can come back and finish up things down here.”

Crowley’s eyes slid to the side. “You feeling up to it? You ok?”

Aziraphale smiled and nodded. “Please come with me. I just need you near right now.” 

-_

They ascended the creaky staircase, and Aziraphale soon found himself seated on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over his knee. He still had his boots on. Crowley followed him at a comfortable distance and stayed standing near the doorway, simply watching.

With concentration, he rucked his trouser-leg up and undid the knot of his shoelaces, feeling the metal aglet at the tip, the light fray of the cord. Running his thumbs along the well-worn tongue, he flexed the sides of the leather outward so he could easily slip it off. He held it for a moment in his hands, feeling the weight. They were not light shoes. Turning it over in his hands, he had a look at the smooth sole, worn with years and years of use, even after replacement every few decades by the current cobbler on Oxford street. 

“Penny loafer for your thought?”

“Oh I daresay my thoughts aren’t even worth that pun,” Aziraphale said, letting the shoe tumble from his grip. Crowley smirked, his arms crossed over his narrow chest, and strode into the room. He sat down on the bed, causing only a slight bend in the mattress. Aziraphale crossed his other leg and squinted at Crowley. “What were you thinking out in the grove that so distracted you I had to come searching?” Crowley laid a hand to his foot.

“Hrph,” he hmphed. “I asked you first.” 

Aziraphale acquiesced. “I was thinking about the contract. About London and going back to work and what that means. To me. To us.” He pressed a fist into his thigh, searching for something he wasn’t sure he could feel in this body. Absently he flexed his fingers, kneading the muscle. “I have difficulty talking about things I am unsure of. In case you hadn’t noticed.” 

Crowley looked down and started playing with the laces. While he spoke, he started to slowly undo them from where they webbed across the eyelet hooks. “Back in the grove I was thinking about Adam and Warlock and, like, the supposed Great Plan.” He looked up through dark lashes, his fingers stilled over the laces. “Y’ever think about it?”

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to snort a laugh. 

“S’what I thought,” Crowley said, and looked back to Aziraphale’s boot. He was now stroking along the edge of his trouser cuff, ruffling the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. Letting his hand drift up, over his sock, over his ankle. Aziraphale wasn’t certain if he was trying to be distracting, or if was distracted himself. Possibly the door swung both ways. “I don’t know if you wanna hear what I was thinking about now.”

Aziraphale was unbuttoning his waistcoat. “If it concerns the intersection of our associated affairs, then I believe it best to cross the Rubicon. That is to say,” he continued adamantly, “yes. I do want to hear.” He carefully removed the item of clothing and set it aside. With measured and practiced routine, he untucked the rest of his shirt, loosened his bowtie, and started on the next set of buttons. The demon had stopped moving completely, seemingly entranced by the antiquated strip-tease of Aziraphale changing his shirt. He tapped his hand, and Crowley startled to order. 

“Right.” He worked a finger between the soft suede uppers and Aziraphale’s foot. It tickled, and he wriggled his toes. Crowley swayed slightly, then went back to working the laces. “Mm. You once said that you thought that the war could have started when Adam turned 11, just, not in a way anyone expected.”

“Correct. I told Michael as much when she and her subordinates came calling for me while you were trapped in hell.” His cufflinks removed and cuffs undone, he shrugged out of the shirt, pausing to examine the burn hole. It was rent clear through. Annoyed, he placed it aside. 

“Yeah, but I mean, that was sort of a jape wasn’t it?” Aziraphale glanced at him but didn’t answer. “Everyone expected the second war to go down like the first. But I think you might be onto something.”

“I fought in the War.” Aziraphale said plainly, but the sound of the words thrown out into the openness of the bedroom shocked him. It had been so long ago, and he felt another wash of guilt and uncertainty. Before he could regret it, he continued. “I suppose we all did. But as a soldier. I didn’t smite anyone. I didn’t. I was wounded in fact. By….” He paused here. “Well, by friendly fire.”

“You…” Crowley leaned in, pressing down on his ankle, and he felt a pulse of searching energy from where they touched. It was like someone laying a hand to his forehead to check for a fever, but all over, and from the inside. 

“We were all angels then.” Aziraphale said, stumbling a bit. “It was angel against angel.”

Crowley swallowed. “It was followers of God against followers of Lucifer. Everyone picked for teams. No one left the odd one out. Everyone forced to play regardless of want or desire.” 

Aziraphale stared into his golden eyes. “I didn’t like that game very much.”

“I’d rather sneak away for a fag and a snog under the bleachers m’self.”

Aziraphale looked down and reached to his boot, but Crowley brushed his hand away. “No no, let me do it.” He started at the tie again, finally pulling the laces loose. “Well, anyway, we expected the same thing. Demon versus Angel this time, or Heaven versus Hell for dominion of it all I guess. Ambiguous as any war, no matter how you slice it. And what I mean is, it doesn’t seem we were the only demons and angels working together. And the things we did kind of make the sides thing all arbitrary anyways -- always was in my opinion.”

“So where does that leave us?”

Crowley slid his boot off finally and nudged him to uncross his legs. “Well, not going to lie. I imagined I was gonna be far away from all of that, making out with you in some star system somewhere, but it sounds like our landlord has other plans.”

Aziraphale fell backwards onto the bed, his upper body clothed in only his undershirt. He had to say it. He had to ask. “Do you feel like you don’t have a choice in this? Did I trap you?”

Crowley turned with overtly reptilian slowness to gaze down at him. “Aziraphale, here’s the thing. I say no regrets, but like, that doesn’t mean I’m not scared out of my mind most of the time. You know when humans are looking for meaning in life, sometimes they ask, ‘what would I do if I had one day left to live?’ Well. We had that. And we chose to be here, together, to save Earth, and honestly, when you really look at it, of course we have to help the humans. If I am right, and the Really Big One comes, I KNOW I chose correctly.” He peered searchingly into Aziraphale’s eyes. “What about you?”

“I choose you, Crowley.” He crossed his hands over his sternum. “Indubitably. Unconditionally. Over all else. Over and over.”

“’Till whatever do us whatever?”

“Till forever and ever. And then some.” 

Crowley inhaled sharply. From where he lay, Aziraphale heard the ‘thunk’ as his other shoe hit the floor. 

There was a burst overhead, and a soft sort of *poff!* noise, like a chandelier made of gossamer had exploded. A prism of intermingled powers rainbowed over them both in a canopy of light and dark. He looked up, and it shone for a moment in a ribbon of star-speckled night splashed with honeyed nectar. It filtered away almost as quickly as it had appeared, leaving an aura of unabashed gratitude and a lovely sort of fizzy sparkly sound which dissipated at the touch of reality. 

“G…gosh,” said Crowley.

“Gosh?”

“Er.” He fell back next to Azirapahle and looked up at the ceiling. “Wow.”

“Did you feel that?”

Crowley put his hands on his own chest. “Didn’t expect that.” 

“Me neither.”

He shook his head with wonder. “This is a fucking weird-ass cottage.”

Aziraphale could not help himself. He laughed. “You have such a way with words, my dear boy. You should write a book.”

“We could call it ‘How to Fall for Your Immortal Enemy in A Million Murdering Steps.’”

“Oh God.”

Crowley cocked an eyebrow. Nodded. “I’ll bet She’d be the first in line for a copy.” 

With a creak of bedsprings, Aziraphale turned on his side and gazed at his demon. “You do think blasphemous thoughts.” 

“Yeah well you enjoy listening to them. Bastard,” he said, with utter fondness.

“Fiend.”

Crowley turned to him. “Will you marry me?”

Aziraphale was already nodding. “Yes.” 

\--

In the end, they figured it out together.

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, wanting badly for dessert. “One more time.” 

They’d withdrawn to the old bookshop sofa after having supped upon miracled beef Wellington with celeriac mash and perigord black truffle and a home-made green pea and fresh spinach soup. The former had been delivered, beautifully plated, thickly-sliced, nestled under a crisp cover of pastry, and oozing foie gras from the best kitchen in Mayfair. And the other had been made by them. Together. In their own kitchen, from peas harvested from their own garden.

It was their second try at the soup, and it was divine. 

They sat nestled close together. Crowley sipped a cocktail of cognac and champagne with a flamed orange twist that the angel had made him because, he insisted, a meal of this caliber demanded a fancy drink. Aziraphale himself opted for water, to keep his head clear and his corporation hydrated.

“It can't be that big a deal,” Crowley postulated. The lease sat on the coffee table in front of them, open to the article in question:

_Tennant(s) shall pay Guardian of Limbo, hereinafter know as “The Landlord” in equal installments of quantifiable Conscientious Miracles (currency: Human Souls), hereinafter known as “The Rent”. The Rent shall be paid via the following instructions:_

_\- Cat or Certified International Express (Delivery to the Asphodel Meadows)_

_Failure to provide full payment within the Grace Period will subject tenant to eviction / exorcism / excommunication._

“Quantifiable Conscientious Miracles. Payable in souls.” Aziraphale was beginning to regret his evening’s alcoholic abstinence. “I should have negotiated to be clearer about that part.” Crowley reached out and rubbed his knee.

“I’ve read quite a few contracts in my day, and all that means is, we gotta get back out there and start influencing things again,” he said. “Spreading some malice. Maybe a blessing or two. Quantifiable just means we got to make them count. Conscientious means we have to do it with purpose.”

“But there would be no assignments.”

“Nope.”

“No requests from head office.”

“No. We’re in our own employ. Independents. Freelancers.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. Held it for a moment, then exhaled. “And you feel it doesn’t matter who does the blessing and who does the cursing?”

“Or tempting or bestowing or whatever you like.” He spoke as if he knew what he was talking about. “Whatever they need.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Tried to sit with the thought. On the surface, it felt like such an astronomical shift. It still felt like he was abandoning himself. “And where do these souls go? I don’t know if I wish to confuse everything.” 

He opened his eyes in time to see Crowley’s bowlike ligaments release and spring him up onto his feet. The demon sipped his drink and took a few paces around the room. “Says they get delivered to the Asphodel Meadow, which is just a place souls go when they die. So. It could be a balancing act where we try to keep things equal between the powers of good and the powers of evil overall. Some souls good, some souls bad. ” He did that very odd thing with his mouth, then ‘tisked’. “I don’t really fancy that, though. Too binary.” 

“No,” Aziraphale shook his head. “That didn’t really serve our needs in the past.” 

He let himself, his whole self, rest with his unease for another moment. There was something they were missing. He tried to think of the times in his life he had been most content, when he had felt the most free. Dancing came to mind. And doing magic. Certainly not working. Oh, unless it was... Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. 

“What if… “ he started slowly, remembering back with contentment to a time not so long ago in the grand scheme of things, when they had been in nearly daily contact. “What if we do like we did before. More on a singular scale, where we equal things out in each soul, and the human just ends up being… normal?” 

Crowley seemed to catch his meaning. He swished the remains of his drink around. “So...” he said, his voice taking on a softer tone and an accented Scotish lilt. “More like raising young Warlock then?”

The sound of that voice brought back a rush of memories, most of them imperfect, but all of them filled with an undercurrent of admiration and justness. He felt it in his gut, and it buoyed him on. “We might not have gotten it exactly right, but if we were to look upon them as individuals, and not as a herd to be divided up into grades, well now, that might be the way to go!” 

Crowley’s tongue passed over his lips, as if he were tasing the idea. He tilted his head to the side. Wrinkled his nose. “Ehhh. Do you think Warlock is normal though?”

“As normal as anyone is going to get on this great stage of fools*.”

Crowley shook his head and huffed. “King Lear? It’s never the funny ones with you, is it?” He downed his drink. “Why is it never the funny ones?” With a spark of that old devil-may-care casualness, he tossed the glass over his shoulder, snapped his fingers to vanish both it and the paperwork, and swooned into Aziraphale’s lap. “You are bloody brilliant at times.”

“I have my moments,” Aziraphale said lightly, and kissed his nose. He brought his hands up to hold him, and his body relaxed into the easy comfort of this wonderful, wonderous allow. He slid his hands around to cup his arse, pulled him further into his lap. 

He was so in love with him.

“Do you think we can do it?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley’s palms steadied him, placed strategically at the nape of his neck. Thumbs worked circles into the tender flesh below his ears. “I am going to kiss you, and then I want to make love to you right here on this poor sofa, and then I will ask _you_ to answer that.” 

“And after that, perhaps cake?”

Crowley leaned in and kissed him long and deep, coiling every bit of his snake-like form up around Aziraphale’s solid torso, his strong hips, pressing them together like two magnets that might never be pried apart. 

Aziraphale returned the embrace ten-fold and felt Crowley gasp into his mouth as all the air was squeezed from his lungs. It was here that he could shed his careful nature. He knew what to do, felt the lines of them like lightning racing from their skin, fusing them together. 

“Oh my dear, my darling, my love.” He rolled, stretching out fully on the sofa which transformed to accommodate their sprawl. 

Crowley sunk to his mouth again and there was a sudden change in temperature as every scrap of clothing vanished from them both. Aziraphale moaned and slid against him, even more in need of every possible connection. His heart struck in his chest like a gong, and it was a feeling of glory, as if that’s what hearts were built for. He stroked and flexed his fingers, feeling a wildness of release as Crowley continued to curl and curve beneath his grip.The surface of his own skin prickled with sensitivity at each place of touch, wanting more. 

Crowley licked his forked tongue over his cheek, wide and flat. Aziraphale let his eyes fall shut, giving in, letting him take, let him have his fill. The demon’s hot hands ran down his sides, over the creases and folds of him. They dug underneath him, grabbing him in handfuls and pulling him in, rubbing up against him, humming and panting against his body. 

“Oh more, please,” he groaned, and Crowley grappled his way across him, kissing his chest, laying his hot mouth against his throat, sucking as the angel arched back. The daze of it hit him and he leaned to the side as Crowley snuggled his face into his neck. 

Aziraphale’s eyes opened, and he saw it. He leaned in and kissed the tattoo of the snake, the icon, the sigil, the symbol of Crowley that was right there before him. Crowley hissed; truly hissed, deep from his throat a rough sound of agonized want. He froze in utter rapture, and when he spoke, his voice ached. “Oh dear God, or -- fuck-all, who cares! Ah yes!”

Finding movement again, he mashed his dick against Aziraphale’s hip, reaching down to position himself for stimulation. The angel felt the pooling of heat and incredible push of his own arousal. He returned the rut, gathering his legs to hug against Crowley’s thigh and humping against him. He wrapped his hand over Crowley’s chin. He wanted to touch that tongue, his mouth, his fangs. He slid his fingers between Crowley’s lips, his thumb holding him there. 

In a frenzied movement Crowley snatched Aziraphale’s hand and took his pinky into his mouth. That silky, succulent tongue wrapped around him in a mind-scattering curl, the branched tips each taking a side of his golden ring. 

“Oh Crowley! Oh!” 

He felt his edges go all swimmy. He closed his eyes again and let his body do as it would. He wasn’t even sure what was happening by then. His cock slicked wet and leaking up and down Crowley’s leg, while Crowley licked around his fingers, tasting, touching.

“I want you!” Crowley gasped, removing Aziraphale’s hand from his mouth, kissing each digit. With trembling grip, he set his black-nailed fingertips to the winged ring, twisting it, turning it, sending jolts of power surging through his arm. 

“Oh Crowley yes, oh let me!” He reached for his ring and held it where Crowley did, only millimeters from removing it completely.

“Wait wait,” Crowley gasped. 

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale rose up on his knees and held their hands together.

“No no no,” he pulled away, “it’s not that, it’s just.”

Aziraphale waved his hand in the same way the master of close-up magic had taught him back in the 1830. “Watch now!” He made a wide-eyed surprised face and flexed his fingers at Crowley. “Taaah!”

Crowley fell off the sofa. 

Aziraphale leaned after him, clutching the edge of the furniture as his lover wriggled away “Oh! I’m sorry,” he giggled. Crowley, naked as a jaybird, stood and looked around. “What on Earth are you doing?”

The demonically removed clothes rematerialized on the floor, and Crowley leaned over, sending his glorious arse into the air. He rooted through the pile, Aziraphale making admiring comments on the view, and eventually yanked his jacket out of the disarray. He dragged the thing with him, shaking his head as he crawled back to the couch. He was talking to himself, and Aziraphale heard him more clearly as he returned. It went something like, “oh yes, oh angel, you don’t know what your sounds do to me, oh fuck all, your laugh.” And then he was back, on his knees at the foot of the sofa, and they were kissing again like mad fools, Aziraphale trying to kiss and smile and laugh all at the same time. 

“Mmm yes mmmm moan for me, oh no, wait wait!” Crowley put a hand to his angel’s pectoral as his other dug around in the jacket. “I got this. Here, wait. Mmm, fuck, we did this all backwards….”

“Of course we did!” 

“Of course we did. Good job us. Ok.” Finally having freed a small, somewhat battered turquoise box from the pocket, he looked up and said, “Aziraphale, Angel of the Lord, Principality and Veteran of the War in Heaven, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, true name of one Atticus Z. Fell, proprietor.”

“Get on with it!” the angel demanded, his hand extended already.

Crowley leaned back and heaved a melodramatic groan. “Uhhh, with this ring will you take me, and please, for the love of everything, let me call you my husband?”

“Yes yes yes!” he shouted, punctuating each word with a shake of his hand. “Oh my demon, oh my husband, oh my everybody, yes!”

Crowley could barely get the ring out he was vibrating so terribly much. It was all such a whirlwind, and Aziraphale could barely stand it. He tumbled off the couch to land atop Crowley, straddling his narrow hips, and kissing down into his mouth furiously. Crowley said something buried in angel lips. Finally, he freed the ring, and slipped it on Aziraphale’s finger, sending a zing down the heartline of his palm to warm his heart even further. Aziraphale moaned again and let the feeling gush over him.

“You have _how_ many years worth of debauchery saved up?” the demon asked between kisses. (And there were so many kisses!) “I have that and more of this fucking love for you, it’s boiling over. The fact I didn’t discorporate from pining is a mystery to me. I can’t help it I love you I love you I love you!”

Aziraphale was counting his lucky stars that he was a being of love, for the pure amount of it that was flowing with every utterance from Crowley would have knocked any other being flat out. “Oh, fuck me now, please more!”

“I am so here for you,” Crowley breathed. He wrapped long-fingers hands over Aziraphale’s thighs, ran them like snakes over the length and breadth of him, making him tingle. Aziraphlae braced his arms over Crowley’s body and rose on his knees. “Like that? Is that how you want it?” The demon curved up and slid out from beneath him. “You are the most gorgeous thing. You know that right? You know what you do to me, you awful bastard.” He slithered his hips to meet at Aziraphale’s buttocks and rutted up against him. 

“You are the most talkative snake in the history of the world,” Aziraphale said over his shoulder, dropping his elbows to the floor. “I do believe I made my request quite plain and clear.

“Oh right, the fucking, yes, getting there.” He thrust once, and despite his cheeky commentary, Aziraphale adored the feel of the edges of his hip bones as they hit against him, the feel of his long impossibly hard cock slamming between his legs. “I don’t have any of your lovely collection of toys down here though. We really ought to have planned this better. And what about the poor cats? We’ll traumatize them. Them seeing something so blasphemous it could incinerate them on the spot.”

“Crowleeea uuh-oooohh!” 

A sudden wash of warm oil against his ass shut him right up. Aziraphale let his head fall to his hands as Crowley’s kneaded into his buttocks. He thrust again, not in, but against, the angles of him sparking, the oil, much too much, dribbled down between his legs, tickling the back of his scrotum. “Oh you are even more a beauty when I make a mess of you. I am going to make such a mess of you.”

All his joints turned to putty, his bones to jelly as the demon let one “heh” noise escape his lips. His hands ran hot and strong, massaging the oil into his back with skill, trailing his forearms over the muscles of him there, then back again. Over, and again. It all felt so good. The silken movement, the swirl, the press. The line where their thighs met was slick, dripping. Aziraphale whined as Crowley dug his thumbs into his muscles, easing out the tightness where he didn’t know there was any. And yet, that hard instistance hung between his legs and he knew they were both aching for release. 

“You want this?” Crowley purred, reaching down to take himself in his hands and sopping his dick through the oil, poking and prodding the inside of his thigh. “You want me? You clever angel.” 

“Yes,” he breathed, and backed himself up scandalously, pressing into him. 

“Say fuck, angel.”

“Fuck!”

“Yeah,” Crowley placed the tip of his cock at Aziraphale’s entrance. “Will you take me? Can you open yourself up for me? Got you all good and greasy. Just need you to help me out.”

With a snap and a moan, Aziraphale helped him out. 

There was nothing slow or paced of their lovemaking this time. It rolled off of them like, well, you know. It forced them together and apart with countless climaxes. It pinnacled the point of existence and sailed back down over and over again.

And they did make an absolute mess, and it was wonderful. 

Yet again, Aziraphale gasped into Crowley’s chest as he came. There were no words left. No anything but him. 

Eventually, they came to rest. At some point, they cleaned up. At some point, someone had conjured a sheepskin cover to the sofa, which they were currently writhing together upon, truly and supremely satisfied. Humming with the shimmering post-glory heat, Crowley stroked Aziraphale’s sweat-soaked hair. 

“Did you look?” he asked, his voice gravely with the exertion of shouting, and Aziraphale held up his left hand. 

The band that Crowley had placed there was made of silver, with an amalgamation of feathers and scales etched into its surface. A large opal, flanked by diamonds, caught the light as he moved. 

“Oh Crowley.” He was captivated. The stone appeared to show either an impressionist painting of the morning sky, or the depth of the universe at night depending on how the light hit it. “Is this vintage Tiffany?”

“Is it still called vintage if I bought it new?”

Aziraphale flushed. “You…” He pulled back, his breath quickening. “Are you serious?”

Crowley’s eyes were kind. “Nothing to be done of the past,” he stated hoarsely. “I happened to be in New York at the time. Just be glad I didn’t put the thing into hock, oh, hundred years back or so. Come on now,” he caressed his face, touching the back of his hand to his jawline. 

Azirapahle asked quietly, “did you look?”

“Mmm?” Crowley gazed upon his own hand. He sat up slightly, and the golden winged ring on his finger glowed faintly with the same dark honey color as his eyes. He passed his thumb gently over it so tenderly, the angel almost wept. 

Actually, there was no ‘almost’ about it.

“Do you think we can do it, Angel?”

Aziraphale inhaled deeply and was mesmerized. This. This was all that mattered.

“I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You cannot save people, you can only love them.  
> \-- The Diary Of Anais Nin, Volume Two (1934-1939)
> 
> * [ King Lear, Act 4, scene 6.](http://shakespeare.mit.edu/lear/lear.4.6.html)
> 
> Research notes:  
> \------------------  
> [Black Walnut Endgrain Kitchen Butcher Block Island](https://www.armanifinewoodworking.com/sample-walnut-end-grain-butcher-block/)  
> [Ritz Beef Wellington](https://meatandoneveg.blog/2019/09/03/the-ritz-london/)  
> [Ritz Pea Soup](https://www.tatler.com/article/recipes-from-the-ritz-london-cookbook)  
> [Ritz Cocktail ](https://www.diffordsguide.com/cocktails/recipe/1677/ritz-cocktail)  
> [Flamed orange](https://punchdrink.com/articles/the-extras-how-and-when-to-garnish-a-cocktail-with-a-flamed-orange-peel/#:~:text=A%20flamed%20orange%20peel%20is,the%20flavor%20of%20the%20drink)  
> [Cottingley Fairies](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Cottingley-sunbath.jpg)  
> [Ghost Orchids](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Epipogium_aphyllum_plants.jpg)  
> [Curse of the opal](https://www.anothermag.com/fashion-beauty/11969/the-history-of-opals-in-art-and-design-tiffany-and-co-tiffany-t#:~:text=Sir%20Walter%20Scott's%201823%20novel,few%20drops%20of%20holy%20water.) (thanks, Sir Walter Raleigh)  
> [Not the exact ring but still...](https://www.junikerjewelry.com/products/001-802-00088-001-802-00088?_pos=38&_sid=4a103679c&_ss=r)


End file.
